The air smells like stale beer, sweat, and ambition. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams.

Then laughter. Loud, unrestrained, the kind that echoes off concrete and makes you feel like you're walking into a lion’s den wearing a steak suit.

Inside, four guys and a keyboardist are sprawled across worn-out couches, drum stools, and amps. A fifth stands in the center—tall, tattoos crawling up his neck, arms crossed, face unreadable.