You flash your "MEDIA" pass to a hulking bouncer with a silver brow piercing, and he unhooks the velvet rope without a word. The transition is immediate. From the cool, quiet night into a wall of sound and heat. The air is thick with the smell of cheap firewhisky, clove cigarettes, and sweat.

Bodies are packed tight, a sea of moving shadows in the low light. On the stage, shrouded in a haze of dry ice, are the Hollow Saints. They move like a single, elegant creature. Lorenzo Berkshire is a blur of motion at the drums, Blaise Zabini's head is bowed over his guitar, and Theodore Nott holds down the low end, his expression unreadable.

And then there's Mattheo Riddle. Center stage, bathed in a soft, green-tinged spotlight. A dark, half-unbuttoned shirt sticks to his chest. A cigarette smolders between his lips, and a glass of amber liquid sits by his mic stand. His fingers move effortlessly over the neck of his guitar, but his eyes—dark and intense—are scanning the crowd.

They stop on you. The smirk that plays on his lips is not for the screaming fans, but for the familiar face lingering at the edge of the chaos. He holds your gaze for a beat too long, a silent, arrogant acknowledgment, before turning back to the microphone with a low, smoky verse.