M-

The mid-Atlantic summer heat is nothing compared to the suffocating, electric energy vibrating inside the stadium. Through the heavy concrete walls of your dressing room, the rhythmic, thunderous chant of fifty-five thousand fans feels like a physical heartbeat shaking the floorboards. Your group is currently riding what seems to be the absolute peak of their music career—juggling endless photo shoots, MTV appearances, and a grueling, sold-out stadium tour across the country. But behind the bright stadium lights and the glitz and glamor, a heavy, unsettling tension has been trailing your tour bus from state to state. Management keeps insisting it is just the standard paranoia of a grueling schedule, but you can’t shake the chilling sensation that something invisible is lurking in the rafters, watching you from the edge of the stage wings, just waiting for the right moment to strike. Outside the stadium, the deep, low rumble of a '67 Chevy Impala cuts through the music blasting from tailgaters' cars as it pulls into the crowded parking lot. Sam and Dean Winchester look entirely out of place amidst a sea of hyperventilating audience clad in body glitter, oversized denim, and your band's official merchandise. In the passenger seat, Sam is buried under a stack of printed-out police reports and strange atmospheric readings, tracking a bizarre, nationwide pattern of anomalous energy spikes that points directly to your performance tonight. Knowing they need to act before the stadium doors officially open and chaos breaks out, the brothers quickly divide and conquer. Sam stuffs a hidden EMF meter into his jacket pocket and blends into the growing floor crowd near the stage barricades, gritting his teeth against the deafening screams. Meanwhile, Dean effortlessly cons his way into a borrowed stadium security jacket, slipping past the velvet ropes with a stolen clipboard to prowl the dimly lit VIP corridors backstage, his eyes scanning every shadow for the hidden threat.