CHAPTER TWO
Are You Scared of The Monster You See?
Nashville, Tennessee
The energy in the room has shifted, a slow-building hum of anticipation filling the space. Though the venue is only about half full, the air thrums with that shared love of live music—drinks flowing, laughter echoing, bodies moving in a slow, restless rhythm.
Most people won’t arrive until Hellwake takes the stage, but Atlas Obsidian clearly has its own loyal following.
The lights dim and the crowd erupts, a mix of cheers and whistles cuts through the darkened venue. The backdrop features ‘AO’ with a lightning bolt in the center.
The drummer appears first, sliding onto his stool and immediately setting a steady beat, the pulse of the song just a whisper beneath the growing noise.
Next, the bassist steps out, plucking a low, reverberating note that sends a thrill through the people at the front, earning another wave of cheers.
Then comes the guitarist. This guy knows how to make an entrance. He bursts onto the stage with wild enthusiasm, pierced tongue out, hair thrashing as he throws up devil horns, his body already moving to the dark, brooding tune now unfolding between the three of them.
It’s a slow build, a sound layering itself with suspense, like a brewing storm.
And then… the final member steps out.
The lead singer, the one I had been eyeing earlier.
He moves slowly, purposefully, his dark hair falling just enough over his forehead to give him that unintentionally mysterious look. His expression is serious, but not in the way of someone burdened by nerves. No… he looks like a man who was born to be on a stage.
I should be working. I should be pouring drinks.
But the bar is empty for now, so instead, I just stare, shamelessly—physically unable to look away.
The song builds, the drums heavier now, the bass growling beneath it, the guitar carving its way through the tension. Each note stretches out, weaving its way through the space, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He finally steps up to the mic, wrapping his tattooed fingers around it slowly, his eyes lifting to the crowd.
And then he sings.
His voice is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. It’s smooth and crisp, but with a visceral, grungy edge that drags against the walls of my mind like a blade dulled by time. It’s intoxicating, completely unlike anything I’ve heard before.
I expect the lyrics to blur, to be swallowed by instruments and static, but I hear his words clearly:
Are you scared of the monster you see?
Forged in a fire
There’s nothing more that I could be
When our home became their pyre
I’m trapped inside forever
There’s no way out (no way out)
The lyrics are dark, almost painful, and the way he sings them sends a shiver down my spine. His lips move with such intensity, such raw purpose. His expression twists as if every syllable both hurts and cleanses him at the same time.
Reign steps behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder, his hands settling lightly on my arms, but it does nothing to pull me out of my trance.
“You keep staring at him like that, and your eyes might get stuck,” he teases, giving me a light squeeze.
I snap out of it, nudging him with my elbow.
“Shut up,” I mumble, reluctantly tearing my gaze away from the stage. I turn to the waiting patron, grabbing the beer she requested and sliding her card through the reader.
When I glance back at Reign, he’s watching me with a smug smirk, as if he knows exactly what’s happening in my head.
“Take a break. Go take some pictures,” he says, flicking his head toward the stage.
“You sure?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He nods, and I barely contain my excitement, grabbing my camera from beneath the bar before weaving through the crowd. If things slow down during shows, Reign always lets me take photos, partly because it’s good for the venue’s marketing, but mostly because he knows how much I love it.
I squeeze my way toward the side of the stage, lifting the camera to my eye. Through the lens, the world sharpens, details blooming in perfect clarity.
And this man—this frontman—is mesmerizing.
Each shot feels like a masterpiece, his presence almost too unrestrained to be real. He moves like he’s lost in the music, as if each lyric is ripping something out of him, leaving him bare for the world to see. I take what feels like hundreds of photos, making sure to capture the whole band.
The guitarist is a dream to shoot, his jumps frozen in midair, sweat glistening under the lights. The energy is electric, the crowd fully locked in, moving like one breathing, pulsing entity.
And then, it’s over.
The set ends, and a strange wave of sadness settles over me, like the kind you feel when something beautiful slips through your fingers too soon.
The band thanks the crowd, and before the singer steps back, his gaze locks onto mine—a steady hold that makes my stomach tighten. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t break the intensity. He just narrows his eyes slightly, then turns and disappears backstage.
I barely have time to process the moment before the guitarist leans down toward me, grinning.
“Hey, can I see those pics?”
His smile is immediate and warm, the kind that can put anyone at ease. He has sandy hair, sweat-dampened and messy, and when he flashes his perfectly straight teeth, I know instantly that this guy is the opposite of the brooding frontman’s energy.
Golden retriever in a rottweiler’s body.
“Of course! Come by the bar when you can,” I reply.
Hellwake is up next, which means we’re about to get slammed.
I snake my way back to the bar, slipping behind it just as the rush starts. Reign gives me a knowing glance, bumping my shoulder. I mouth a quick “thank you” before diving back into my bartending duties.
For the next thirty minutes, we sling drinks nonstop, barely keeping up with the influx of people waiting for the headliner’s set.
Then finally the lights dim, the crowd settles, and a collective sigh of relief passes between us. The madness is paused, at least for a moment.
I swipe the back of my hand across my brow, exhaling, when I spot them.
The members of Atlas Obsidian are stalking up to the bar, their energy still humming from the set. The guitarist, the one with the golden smile and bright blue eyes, plops onto a stool directly in front of me.
“Hey, photographer! Can I see those pics? I was trying to put on a good show for you.” He shakes out his damp hair, sweat still glistening on his skin.
I smirk, grabbing my camera from its hiding spot.
“I appreciate the effort,” I tease, handing it over.
He extends a hand before flipping through the photos. His arms are a chaotic canvas of mismatched tattoos, each one telling its own story yet refusing to follow any particular theme. He gives off the kind of energy that runs entirely on vibes with his ink being no exception.
“I’m Cody.”
I shake his hand confidently, trying not to wince at how slick his palm is.
“Ramona.”
His eyes flick up quickly, something playful sparking behind them.
“Please tell me your last name is Flowers.”
I giggle, catching the Scott Pilgrim reference immediately.
“I wish. It’s Hendrix.”
His smile widens.
“Well, that’s even better. That’s the last name of my favorite guitarist.”
He refocuses on the camera, his eyes sparkle and his grin widens as he scrolls through them.
Meanwhile, Reign is chatting with the other two band members, while the singer sits off to the side, barely acknowledging anything around him.
His fingers click rhythmically against his phone screen, his posture relaxed but closed off.
“Dude, you’re seriously talented, Ramona,” Cody says, his voice laced with real appreciation.
I fight the heat creeping up my neck and shrug.
“Thanks! You made it easy…great show, by the way. You guys killed it.”
I say it loud enough, secretly hoping the mysterious frontman will react.
Cody grins and slaps him on the arm.
“Ninety percent of that is this guy, isn’t that right, Shadow Daddy?”
I fail to contain my laugh at the nickname. The frontman finally looks up, his piercing gaze landing on Cody like a silent threat.
“How many times have I told you not to call me that, Sunshine?” he deadpans.
Cody shrugs, completely unfazed.
“Joke’s on you, Elias, I love it when you call me Sunshine.” He punctuates the statement with a loud kiss to his cheek.
Elias rolls his eyes and wipes Cody’s kiss away. Then his attention shifts to me and my breath catches. It’s undivided, direct, intense, but not in a flirtatious way, in a way that makes me feel like he actually sees me.
“Glad you enjoyed the set.”
His voice is smooth but quiet, like a man unused to accepting compliments.
“Sure thing. Your voice is…” I hesitate, searching for the right word, “captivating.”
Elias dips his head slightly, almost as if embarrassed.
“You sing with so much… feeling, so much purpose. Not many artists do that anymore.”
He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he just nods with a small smile and stalks off, disappearing into the crowd.
But I didn’t miss it. That flicker of genuine gratitude before he left.
Cody grins, shaking his head.
“Sorry about him. He’s a broody motherfucker, but he’s the best guy I know.”
He reaches for the other two bandmates, kissing them both on the cheek, which earns him a pair of playful punches to the arm.
“Could we pay you for those photos?” Cody asks hopefully, still rubbing his arm.
I shake my head. “Just credit me. Consider it a gift for introducing me to one of my new favorite bands.”
Cody throws a hand over his heart.
“Ramona, that is too sweet.”
Then, before I can stop him, he leans across the bar and pulls me into a hug. I laugh, handing him a napkin and pen so he can write down his email.
A few minutes later, they vanish into the crowd, just as Hellwake’s set starts.