Chapter One: Quinn Parker Does Not Scream

I would like to be on record, in a court of law and also in the group chat, that I did not choose this.

If anyone asks, I was kidnapped.

Dragged. Hauled. Emotionally blackmailed.

Because there is no universe where I, Quinn Parker reasonably sane seventeen year old with a part time job shaped hole in her schedule and a permanent to do list in her brain, wakes up and thinks, You know what would be relaxing? Being pressed into a crowd of shrieking teenagers while fluorescent bracelets flash “MARRY ME” in my peripheral vision.

And yet.

There I was, standing in the line outside the Westbridge Arena with my best friend vibrating beside me like she’d been plugged into an outlet.

Sienna wore glitter on her cheekbones in the shape of little stars. Actual glitter. On purpose. She also had a homemade NEON ATLAS shirt that said NEON SAVED MY GPA in puffy paint.

She’d tried to make me one, too.

I’d declined because I enjoy being able to look strangers in the eye.

“Quinn,” she said, clutching our tickets like they were passports to paradise. “I just want you to know that when they come out, I might pass away.”

“You can’t,” I said. “We paid too much for you to die before the first chorus.”

Sienna gasped, scandalized, as if I’d insulted a sacred text. “That’s the spirit! You’re getting it!”

“I’m not getting anything,” I said, adjusting the strap of my bag. “I’m simply here as your emotional support cynic.”

“You’re here because you love me.”

“That too,” I admitted, because I wasn’t heartless.

Sienna leaned closer, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “And because you love their music.”

I lifted my chin. “I never said that.”

Sienna’s eyes narrowed. “Quinn. You literally hum their songs when you’re doing math.”

“I hum lots of things when I’m suffering,” I said. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

“And you know all the lyrics.”

“I know some lyrics.”

Sienna’s smile turned sharp and victorious. “To all of them.”

I stared at her for a moment, trying to decide if denying it was worth the energy.

Here was the truth: NEON ATLAS made good music. Annoyingly good music. Catchy, layered, the kind of songs that made you want to roll your car windows down even if you were just driving to buy milk. Their harmonies were stupidly satisfying. Their lyricism was way better than a boy band had any right to be.

But liking music was not the same as… whatever this was.

I gestured vaguely at the crowd, the signs, the screaming, the girls wearing matching “MRS. WILDER” bracelets like they’d already mailed in their wedding invitations.

“I can appreciate their talent,” I said, “without turning it into a personality trait.”

Sienna clutched her chest like I’d stabbed her with a fountain pen. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m extremely fun,” I said. “I’m just… private-fun.”

She bumped my shoulder with hers. “You’re secretly a softie.”

“I am not.”

Sienna’s grin widened. “You are. You’re just emotionally allergic to admitting it.”

If there was a way to die of irony, I’d be gone because I’d literally helped Sienna buy these tickets. I’d also stayed up too late last week watching NEON ATLAS’s tiny desk acoustic set because their stripped-down vocals had ruined my ability to pretend I didn’t care.

But none of that mattered.

Because I had rules.

Rule one: don’t scream.

Rule two: don’t pretend you’re in love with someone you’ve never met.

Rule three: do not, under any circumstances, let anyone discover the box under your bed that contains three folded posters, one glossy magazine cover, and a ticket stub from two years ago when NEON ATLAS played a smaller venue and the world was calmer.

The posters were not up on my wall.

They were not taped above my desk like a shrine.

They were not something I talked about.

They were simply… evidence.

And evidence, in my experience, only ever came back to haunt you.

We shuffled forward with the line, the air buzzing with excitement and perfume and the sharp smell of popcorn from somewhere inside. Phones were already out. People were filming the doors as if the doors might spontaneously start singing.

Sienna hopped from foot to foot. “Okay, okay, tell me honestly,” she said. “If you had to pick one member to be stranded on a deserted island with, who would it be?”

“I’d pick a rescue boat,” I said.

“Quinn!”

“I’m serious,” I said. “Also, why do we always assume stranded islands come with clean drinking water? This is unrealistic.”

Sienna rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Fine. Who’s your favourite member.”

“I don’t have a favourite.”

“Liar,” she said brightly, the way only a best friend could say it without sounding like an accusation. “You have a favourite.”

I didn’t answer fast enough, which was basically an answer.

Sienna’s grin went feral. “It’s Jace.”

“It is not.”

Sienna leaned in, stage whispering like we weren’t surrounded by people who would sell their souls for this conversation. “It’s totally Jace Wilder.”

“I’m going to walk away from you,” I said.

She grabbed my arm and laughed. “You’re blushing!”

“I’m not blushing,” I said, even though my face did that thing it does when I’m annoyed, warm, traitorous, and completely uncooperative.

For the record, Jace Wilder was the lead singer. The face, the voice, the smile. The one who could stand under a spotlight and make forty thousand people feel like he was singing directly to them.

He was also, in my opinion, a complete stranger.

And strangers did not get to have that kind of power over me.

“That’s not what this is,” I muttered, more to myself than to Sienna. “I like the music. That’s it. I don’t… know him.”

Sienna’s expression softened a little, like she understood the difference even if she didn’t care. “I know,” she said. “But still. Let me have this.”

I sighed. “Fine. If I had to pick someone… I’d pick Rory.”

Sienna blinked. “Rory?”

“Because he seems like he’d know how to start a fire,” I said. “And he’d probably bring snacks.”

Sienna laughed. “Okay, that’s fair.”

We made it through security and into the arena, and the noise hit like a wall. The kind of excited chaos that made you feel like you were inside a living thing. Lights pulsed. Music thumped. Everyone moved with purpose, as if the best moment of their lives was scheduled and they did not intend to miss it.

Sienna practically skipped down the stairs toward our section.

Our seats weren’t floor level, Sienna had tried, but my bank account had laughed and then cried, yet the stage still looked huge and close enough to feel real.

“Look,” Sienna said, gripping my elbow. “We can actually see!”

“We can see,” I agreed. “And we can also hear. Unfortunately.”

She smacked my arm, but she was smiling so hard I couldn’t even pretend to be mad.

I slid into my seat and set my bag at my feet, trying to ignore the fact that my heartbeat had already picked up like it was preparing for something important.

Because here was another truth: concerts were fun.

Even if you didn’t scream.

Even if you didn’t have glitter stars on your face.

Even if you’d rather die than wear a shirt with puffy paint.

The lights dimmed slightly, and the crowd surged in anticipation, like an inhale held too long.

Sienna grabbed my hand. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” I whispered back. “Your hand is sweating.”

“That’s love,” she said.

“That’s biology,” I said, but my mouth was smiling despite me.

The opening DJ set was already going, some warm-up track to keep everyone hyped, and Sienna bounced in her seat like a spring. She kept checking her phone, probably refreshing the band’s social media accounts like they’d post a live update that said, "Hello, fans, we are currently existing backstage."

I leaned back and let myself look at the stage setup.

Three mic stands. A raised platform for the drummer. A wall of LED screens that would probably show dramatic close ups and fake constellations and maybe, if the universe had a sense of humour, a giant animated neon atlas like the band’s name suggested.

I could admit it: whoever designed their shows knew what they were doing.

“Quinn,” Sienna said suddenly, eyes wide. “What if they pick someone from the audience to come up on stage.”

“I will literally glue myself to this chair,” I said.

“What if they pick you?”

“They won’t,” I said. “I have ‘please do not perceive me’ written on my forehead.”

Sienna’s gaze flicked over my face. “Yeah, you kind of do.”

“Thanks.”

She giggled. “I mean it in a good way. You’re mysterious.”

“I’m tired,” I said. “That’s not mysterious.”

Sienna opened her mouth to say something, then paused, her expression shifting.

“What?” I asked.

She frowned at her phone. “They’re late.”

I blinked. “Who’s late.”

“The band,” she said, like it was obvious. “They’re supposed to start in five minutes.”

“Maybe they like suspense,” I offered.

Sienna didn’t look convinced. “They’re never late.”

“People are late,” I said. “Even famous people. Especially famous people. They probably have.”

Sienna cut me off with a gasp. “What if something happened.”

“Like what,” I said, already regretting the question.

She listed them with the intensity of someone reading a prophecy. “Food poisoning. A car crash. A, what if Jace lost his voice. What if they got stuck in an elevator. What if.”

“Sienna,” I said, holding up a hand. “Stop. Right now. You’re going to summon disaster by naming it.”

She exhaled dramatically. “I can’t help it. This is important.”

“I know,” I said, softer. “But they’ll come out. You’ll scream. I’ll pretend not to know the lyrics. We’ll go home and your ears will ring for three days. Everything will be fine.”

Sienna studied me like she could tell I was slightly more invested than I was pretending.

Then she smiled. “You’re sweet.”

I made a face. “Don’t say that like it’s a diagnosis.”

She laughed and leaned back.

A few minutes passed. Then, a few more.

The lights didn’t drop all the way. No dramatic intro started. The warm-up music kept going, looping like it was stalling.

You could feel the crowd’s energy shift, from excited to restless, to confused. People began murmuring, checking phones, craning their necks toward the side of the stage as if someone might appear and explain.

Sienna’s knee bounced.

Mine did too, which I resented.

Finally, Sienna stood abruptly. “Bathroom,” she announced, like this was a tactical decision in a war.

“I’ll come with you,” I said automatically.

“No,” she said, already gathering her things. “You stay. Save our seats. If they start without me, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“If they start without you, I’ll text you,” I promised.

Sienna pointed at me. “Don’t let anyone sit here.”

“I look like I bite,” I said. “No one will try.”

“That’s true,” she said cheerfully, and then she disappeared up the stairs with the urgency of someone on a mission.

I watched her go, then sank back into my seat.

Around me, people were grumbling and laughing nervously, like they were trying to keep the vibe from souring.

I checked my own phone, no alerts, no posts, no “Sorry guys, we accidentally launched Jace into space.”

Nothing.

I should’ve felt relieved.

Instead, I felt… itchy.

Like something was about to happen.

The warm up track ended. A new one started. Still no band.

I glanced at the clock in the corner of my screen.

Ten minutes late now.

Sienna still wasn’t back.

I sighed and stood, adjusting my bag. I didn’t want her coming back and panicking because she couldn’t find me, and also, fine, I had to pee too.

I made my way up the stairs and into the concourse, where the air smelled like nachos and overpriced soda. People clustered in small groups, talking and checking phones and arguing about whether the band being late was a “bit.”

Near the bathrooms, the line was long, because of course it was. Concert bathrooms operated on the same laws of physics as black holes.

I spotted Sienna’s hair near the front and waved.

She didn’t see me. She was too busy staring at her phone like it had personally betrayed her.

I slipped into the women’s bathroom, dodging elbows and sequined sleeves, and made my way toward the sinks where there was slightly more space.

Sienna wasn’t there.

Maybe she’d gone into a stall already.

I leaned against the wall near the hand dryers, scrolling through nothing in particular, waiting.

The noise in the bathroom was what you’d expect: chatter, laughter, someone complaining about their eyeliner, someone else squealing that they’d “literally die” if they saw the band up close.

It was normal.

Until it wasn’t.

A sudden ripple of sound came from the hallway outside, fast footsteps, shouting, a squeal that rose into a scream. The kind of scream that didn’t sound like “concert fun” anymore.

It sounded like surprise.

Then the bathroom door swung open hard enough to hit the stopper, and a girl stumbled inside, eyes wide.

“They’re here!” she shrieked.

The entire room reacted like someone had lit a fuse. Girls surged toward the door. Phones appeared instantly, raised above heads like offerings.

I pushed off the wall, confused. “What do you mean, they’re.”

Another scream, closer this time. The kind that turned my stomach.

Then, through the crack between bodies rushing out, I saw movement in the hallway.

Security in black. People pressing forward. A flash of dark hair and a familiar silhouette ducking low, moving fast, as if trying not to be seen in the very place everyone came to see him.

And because I am apparently cursed with good eyesight and terrible timing, I recognized him instantly.

Jace Wilder.

Not on a stage.

Not under lights.

Just… running.

Being chased.

My brain did one of those slow, unhelpful replays where it narrated the obvious:

That is the lead singer of NEON ATLAS, sprinting past the women’s bathroom like his life depends on it.

That is a crowd of fans, sprinting after him like their lives depend on it.

This is going to end badly.

I stepped forward without thinking, half because I didn’t want the concert cancelled, and half because something about the look on his face wasn’t what it should’ve been.

He wasn’t smiling.

He looked… cornered.

And then his eyes flicked up, and for one impossible second, he looked straight at me through the chaos, like I was the only still thing in a hallway full of motion.

My heart kicked.

My common sense whispered, Don’t.

My feet whispered, Too late.

And before I could talk myself out of it, I moved toward the doorway, toward the commotion, toward the screaming, toward the boy who was supposed to be a glowing star on a stage, not a real person sprinting through an arena hallway like he was trying to escape his own name.

The crowd surged again, and the hallway swallowed him. I followed.