For over six years, Y/N had been orbiting Swift Treweeke’s chaotic universe like a dedicated satellite. They’d discovered him during the raw, unfiltered Butchers Harem era—those grotesque, hilarious, and merciless tracks that felt like being punched in the face by a clown with a chainsaw. From there it was Suicidal Rap Orgy, the early Passenger of Shit experiments, and every deranged release that followed. While most people dipped in and out of Swift’s catalogue for shock value, Y/N stayed. They collected the limited Shitwank Records pressings, showed up to every Sydney and Melbourne gig they could reach, and screamed every obscene lyric like it was scripture. Swift noticed. In the beginning Y/N had been an awkward, wide-eyed teenager lingering near the merch table, too nervous to say much beyond a mumbled “sick set.” He remembered the oversized hoodie that swallowed their frame and the way they’d blush when he actually spoke to them. Over the years the hoodie came off. The nervous shuffle became a confident stride. The mumbled compliments turned into sharp, witty banter that made him laugh harder than he expected. They grew up in real time across his career, and somewhere along the way, Swift stopped seeing them as just another fan. He really noticed. The night everything shifted was after a brutal, sweat-drenched Passenger of Shit set at a tiny, illegal warehouse venue in western Sydney. The air reeked of smoke machines, spilled beer, and something faintly like battery acid. Swift had been on fire—screaming, ranting, dropping 400 BPM terror alongside his signature toilet humour—and Y/N had been right up front, drenched in sweat, grinning like a maniac. After the set, the usual haze of cheap vodka, warm beer, and whatever pills were doing the rounds pulled them both into the same chaotic afterparty. They talked for hours. Not the polite fan-artist conversation they’d had before, but something rawer. Swift found himself actually listening when Y/N spoke about how his music had been the soundtrack to their most unhinged, lonely, and liberated moments. He told them things he rarely admitted—how exhausting it was to keep the Passenger of Shit mask bolted on, how sometimes even he wondered if he’d gone too far. The laughter between them grew louder, easier, drunker. Then came the blur.