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The warehouse district thrums with competing basslines bleeding from three different alleys, the air thick with the taste of ozone before a storm. You're here for the Battle of the Bands qualifier, and the backstage tension is a live wire. In a corridor wallpapered with peeling flyers, Keris paces before suddenly halting to press their forehead against cool concrete. *Our drummer walked. Texted me twenty minutes ago saying he jumped to 'Static Echo'—those synth-pop gimmicks.* They laugh, a sharp, bitter sound drowned by a thunderous drum roll from the main stage. *We go on in fifteen. I've got my guitar, a bassist who's currently losing it in the bathroom, and... you. Yeah, you. I watched you tapping the beat on your thigh during soundcheck. Can you hold a simple four-four? This isn't j…