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“I don’t want to drink,” he replied to Milo. “I want to write.”

For that, a glass was enough to ease the cramps and breathe.

Tristan pulled out the half-full bottle of Jameson and poured himself a drink. Thoughtfully, he leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at the chaos in the living room. Notes everywhere. His guitar lay on the couch.

Yes, he wanted to write.

Had to write.

He settled on the couch and immersed himself in the chaos. He didn’t need to wait. Not to search. The words came quickly; they crowded him. Dense fog limited his field of view, and his entire focus was only on one thing.

The pen in one hand, the glass in the other. His gaze followed the black lines on the paper as he formed words and strung them together. Thoughts. Fragments. Detached from his emotions, they couldn’t affect him anymore. The barriers were open, and he was without doubt, without fear, and without questions. Unshaken, he left reality behind. Captured it on white ground. Created new worlds and immersed himself in eternal noise.

A solitary lamp illuminated behind the drum kit, casting José’s shadow across the room.

After dropping off Tristan, he had come here, but instead of playing, he had been sitting motionless on the stool for minutes, staring at the toms in front of him, trying to figure out what had even brought him here.

The conversation with Tristan? Which part of it? He hadn’t been upset or sad when he left Tristan’s place. Instead, it felt like Tristan’s emptiness had spilled over onto him—or at least, was lurking around him.

Were his efforts in vain? Was this the end of Nightstalker? What else could he do to prevent that? Wasn’t he already doing enough? Pacifying Andrej. Uplifting Tristan. Supporting Leaf.

José believed in this band. Even though everything pointed to them not making it, he wouldn’t stop fighting for them. Unwaveringly. Yes, that’s why he had come here. Because only drumming had the power to release the pressure and all the doubts that almost overwhelmed him at the end of the day.

He played lightly on the snare, gradually entering a trance-like state. Increasing the tempo and dynamics more and more. With a transitional fill on the toms, he shifted into a four-four time. José tilted his head and closed his eyes.

Leaf restlessly paced back and forth in the bedroom, his heart racing. He then sat on the edge of the bed and clenched his fists. Despite his repeated efforts, the tingling sensation persisted. He questioned whether he had made the right decision, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. What stunned him most was that he had sent Diego a message expressing condolences and casually informing him that he would be on the guest list for the Whisky on Saturday. He hadn’t made that decision in a drug-induced haze but completely sober.

Now, as the cocaine hit and was supposed to be a substitute for heroin, it almost agonized him. His thoughts whirled around like a roller coaster, taking a life of their own. His pulse quickened, and he could feel his heart thudded thumping loudly in his chest.

What if Diego sees through my intentions?

What if something goes wrong?

What if I jeopardize the safety of the band members?

Tristan’s safety.

Could Leaf bear that responsibility?

Agitated, he jumped up and continued pacing back and forth. He struggled to tie it up again. Despite his attempts to take deep breaths, the tightness in his chest made it impossible.

No, I have to go through with this, he told himself. Even if everyone hates me afterward. It’s the only way to seek justice. It’s the only way Diego gets the punishment he deserves.

And yet, he felt like he might explode. In his desperate attempt to regain control, he teetered on the edge of falling back into old patterns. He still saw his heroin use as mere slip-ups, things he could correct with cocaine. But his body craved the euphoria of the gold he injected into his veins.

Fuck!

He knew all too well that he was about to lose everything, yet he was only dominated by this one thought. Heroin. It even seemed comforting because it pushed aside all the rest that haunted him. It gave him the feeling that it was okay to lose everything.

Tristan. The music. Himself.

No!

He stopped in the middle of the room and pressed his palms against his temples.

Pull yourself together! The effect of the cocaine will wear off soon. But what then?

He placed a cigarette in his mouth, tossed the pack onto the bed, and frantically searched for a lighter. After rummaging through a pile of clothes, he found a yellow one that Milo had left behind. It was empty.