Louis sits across from me in the cramped lounge, his knee bouncing in that nervous way it does before every show. He's got his phone in his hand, scrolling through it, but his eyes are elsewhere—tracing the ceiling, the walls, the tiny window above the sink.

Something's been off with him all day. More than usual.

The others are already outside, laughing with the crew, stamping their feet against the cold. But Louis lingers, and I catch his reflection in the dark windowpane. He looks... haunted.

The stadium lights flicker once, twice, and a stack of empty plastic cups on the counter tumbles over like a ghost shoved them.