CHAPTER SEVEN
The Silence is Screaming
Lexington, Kentucky
The guys move like a well-oiled machine now that we’re back at the venue, slipping into their pre-show routine. Each of them has a role: setting up, tuning, prepping. There’s no wasted movement, no hesitation. This is second nature to them, like breathing.
Meanwhile, I have my own job to do.
The guys set up the merch table and I begin neatly folding the t-shirts and hoodies, stacking them along the surface. I line up the vinyls and hang posters. Tonight is the first chance to prove my worth, to show them I am not just along for the ride.
I change into dark jeans and a black bodysuit, the fabric hugging my frame, leaving my shoulders bare.
A small leather choker rests against my throat, and I finish the look with a deep red lip, wings sharp over my lids, a far cry from the boring, soul-sucking office attire I’ve been stuck in for years.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like me. The real me.
My camera is tucked safely beneath the merch table, waiting for its moment.
The venue itself has that gritty, underground charm, the kind of place that feels alive even before the music starts. Concrete walls frame the dimly lit space, graffiti scrawled across the bathroom doors, faded show posters from bands that have come and gone layered like a time capsule.
As the doors open, people filter in, buzzing with excitement. The air is thick with the scent of beer and sweat, that distinct pre-show energy hissing between patrons like a live wire.
A ripple of anticipation runs across my skin as I take in the space, and a smile spreads before I can stop it. This is my happy place. Always has been.
A line quickly forms at the merch table, and I work through it methodically, scanning card payments, handing out shirts, marking inventory, and engaging in quick, enthusiastic conversations with fans.
I barely have time to catch my breath before the lights dim, the unmistakable hum of an electric guitar filling the space.
Atlas Obsidian takes the stage one by one, mirroring the way they had back in Nashville.
Last out comes Elias.
And the second he steps into the spotlight, it is like watching a transformation unfold in real time.
The lights rise slowly, casting crimson streaks that slither up his body like fire licking its way across stone. Shadows pool in the hollows of his muscles, and the red glow clings to his skin, painting him in heat and something almost otherworldly.
His voice hits the crowd like a storm breaking open, dark and powerful, wrapping around me like a whisper, a promise, a ghost of something lost but never forgotten.
On stage, he is mesmerizing—more than that, he is undeniable.
There is no trace of the brooding, closed-off man from earlier.
This version of Elias owns every inch of the stage.
It’s as if he’s been reborn into a siren, his voice no longer just a sound, but a visceral force that pulls like a tide dragging you from the shoreline into dark water until you forget there was ever a surface to return to.
He leans into the mic stand as he sings, eyes closed, body moving methodically to the dark rhythm.
By the third song, the lyrics etch themselves into my brain, clear as day:
Surrounded by a void so dark
Pulling me under with every swallow
I kiss the edge of death each night
Praying for one last glimpse of you
I’m drowning (drowning)
The air is gone
Every choice I made
Becomes a weight that drags me down
The silence is screaming
I sink beneath the surface
Drowning out the memories
Til there’s nothing left of me
The words grip me and send a shiver down my spine.
It is obvious that Elias has a past. A dark one. And hearing him pour it into every syllable, seeing the way his face twists with emotion, only makes me curious to learn more.
Vernon taps my shoulder, nodding toward the stage.
I grab my camera and move through the crowd, finding an opening near the front, where I can capture everything—the energy, the sweat, the way the light hits Elias just right, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones and inked arms.
I snap shot after shot, the click of the shutter lost beneath the heavy bass line.
I film slow-motion clips, panning across the sea of raised hands, the lights flickering over the fevered faces of the crowd. I catch one of Cody’s epic jumps mid-air, his hair wild, his grin pure adrenaline—I know he’ll love that one.
When their set ends, the cheers are deafening, the room pulsing with leftover energy, but I have more work to do.
I hurry back to the merch table and swap places with Vernon as a new wave of fans flood forward before Hellwake’s set.
By the time the night wraps up, I am exhausted, my body aching from standing, moving, running on pure adrenaline.
But I feel alive.
This—this is what I am meant for.
As the guys pack up their stage gear, I sit at the table, my fingers moving quickly over my phone, stitching together a video from the footage I’d captured.
By the time Cody and Grady make their way back to the table, I have something to show them.
I hold out my phone, hitting play. The video rolls, a montage of their performance, Elias in the spotlight, Cody’s wild jumps, the crowd surging in sync with the music.
They watch in stunned silence, their faces lit by the glow of the screen. When the final clip plays, Cody turns to me, eyes wide with excitement.
“Dude, we gotta put that on socials. I’ll give you the login. None of us are good about updating it.”
I perk up, an idea forming. “I have some experience in social media. Do you guys want me to take it over while I’m here?”
Their heads snap toward me, eyes alight and shoulders dropping in unison.
“Ramona, that would be amazing,” Cody says, genuine gratitude in his voice. “Are you sure it’s not too much?”
I wave him off. “Not at all. This doesn’t even feel like a job.”
Grady claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You’re truly the best, Ramona. So glad we found you.”
I almost blush at the sentiment, but instead, I just smile.
“Hey, let’s get a photo!” Cody calls out, throwing an arm around me and yanking Grady in on the other side.
He waves over at Jasper, who’s lingering near the side of the venue. “Jas! Get over here!”
Without missing a beat, he shoves my phone into Vernon’s hands, trusting him to capture the moment.
“Oh, wait—we’re missing our superstar.” Cody cups his hands around his mouth and shouts across the room, “Elias!”
I glance over just in time to see him push off the wall he’s been casually leaning against, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s making a personal sacrifice just walking over.
He approaches with that usual reluctant grace, stopping just behind the group.
His shoulder brushes lightly against my back—a brief, accidental touch that sends a jolt of awareness through me.
Vernon holds up the phone, aligning the frame as we huddle together. He counts down, “Three, two, one—smile!” and freezes this messy, wonderful moment in time.
He hands my phone back with a grin, and I swipe through the shots.
Cody, as expected, is sticking out his tongue, piercing on full display and flashing his best rock ‘n’ roll hand gesture.
Grady and Jasper are smiling softer, more genuine, while Elias broods quietly behind us, arms loosely folded, his eyes dark.
And me—sweaty, tired, hair frizzed from the heat—but there’s no mistaking the happiness stamped across my face. A kind of happiness that shines straight through the exhaustion.
I open Instagram and select my favorite shot. My thumb hovers for a second before typing the caption:
Goodbye corporate—hello tour life!
I tag Atlas Obsidian’s page and hit post, watching the likes begin to trickle in, little heart icons stacking up.
As I slide my phone back into my pocket, Grady’s words float through my mind again: So glad we found you.
A smile curls at my lips, because the truth is... I’m glad they found me too.
I slip my phone into my back pocket and turn back to the merch stand, finishing the last of the packing. Cody, Grady, and Jasper scoop up the totes we’ve already filled, leaving me to tackle the final stragglers.
I reach up toward the back wall, stretching as far as my arms will take me to snag the last t-shirt still hanging there, but it’s just out of reach. I jump once, fingertips grazing fabric, but not enough to grab it.
I’m gearing up for attempt number two when I feel someone step into my space—close enough to shift the air around me.
Elias.
Without a word, he reaches up and plucks the shirt from the hook with ease, he barely even has to stretch. He hands it to me, his fingers brushing mine for a fleeting second.
“Thanks. Must be nice being so tall,” I say, my laugh coming out way more awkward than I intend.
He gives me a short nod, the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across his lips before he slips back into the lingering crowd like smoke.
Somewhere between Lexington and Baltimore
A jolt shakes the bus, the movement stirring me awake as we rumble down the highway.
I yawn, stretching my sore limbs before reaching for my phone, only to find multiple unread texts from Heidi. It suddenly hits me: I never actually told her I’d taken the job.
And judging by the aggressive notifications, she knows now.
Heidi: What the hell, Ramona?? You went on the tour?
Heidi: Why didn’t you tell me?
I rub my eyes, exhaling before typing back.
Me: It was kind of a last-minute decision, but it was the right one. I’m having the best time!
Heidi: If you say so. I hope you can find a real job when you get back.
The condescension seeps through the screen, and something tightens in my chest, that old, familiar frustration, the feeling of being constantly doubted, constantly having to explain myself to someone who should just support me.
I take a deep breath, tapping out my reply.
Me: I’ll worry about that after the summer. Right now, I’m happy.