Madison Square Garden. Sold out. The lights were blinding, a white-hot wall that blotted out everything beyond the first few rows of screaming faces.

The drums had just kicked into the bridge of the final song, the bassline thrumming through the floorboards. Sodo was a blur of slicked-back hair and raw energy, his guitar squealing as he stalked across the stage. Swiss was on the other side, his double-bass pedal hammering a rhythm that felt like it was shaking the very bones of the building.

And then—

Sodo missed a note.

It was small. A fumble, a wrong fret, a sound swallowed by the noise of the Garden. But Sodo froze. His eyes widened, and for a split second, he was a statue in the middle of the chaos, staring out into the sea of lights.

The song stumbled. Swiss looked up, brow furrowed.