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“Ha! Sure you have!”

“No.” Levi smiles, his gaze softening as he looks at his sister. “When Dad heard about the attack on Olena, he wanted to assign her bodyguards. I told him we had it handled.”

“Attack?” I say, alarmed. “When?”

Levi rolls his head until his neck cracks. “A while ago. Last week.”

“Why didn’t I know about it?”

“You’re out, remember?”

“She’s my sister too!”

“She shot the guy in the knee and proved she doesn’t need protection. But Mom and Dad see it differently.”

“She shot him in the knee?”

“Yeah. Pretty badass, right?”

“She has a gun?”

“Koh… Aniki… why don’t you just go train? If you ever want back in, say the word. Until then, keep playing Gandhi and telling yourself the non-violent way is the answer.”

“You’re awful,” I say in disbelief, but I grab my gym bag and head toward the staff changing room.

“Don’t take it personally, Aniki,” Levi calls after me before I disappear into the staff locker room. “I’d love to have you back on the team.”

I turn around one last time and smile. “I know. Thanks. But I need to sort out my own shit first.”

Levi nods with understanding. “Let me know if you need help.”

19

—

Aran

I can’t shake the feeling that the crowd is different tonight. There’s an aggression in the air I recognize from punk shows, but this time the vibe is darker—more personal.

No one’s cursing the system or raging at the bosses. Except maybe me. The audience is split, and no amount of music can bridge the divide.

As if there wasn’t already enough tension in the room, management decided to grace us with their presence. Leslie and Douglas—the big boss himself—are standing at the side of the stage, probably making sure we do our jobs right.

I play my part, smiling like everything’s fine, but inside I feel like a puppet, convinced I’m the reason for the ugly atmosphere.

With my fist raised, I let the tension build at the end of the song as Mike wrings the last distorted notes from his Fender. The vibrations fill every fiber of my body, every muscle charged with energy as I wait for the right moment.

When the song peaks, I slash my arm down and Liam ends it with a thunderous crash on the drums.

The crowd erupts in applause, whistles, and shouts.

We’ve been on stage for over an hour. Sweat pours down my temples, soaking my hair and tank top. Half-drunk, I stumble over to the drum kit, chug water from one cup and several swigs of vodka from the other. Liam’s pills are working too. The headache is gone, but the high I’m riding feels even better.

The drummer winks at me and takes a sip himself. He probably thinks I already did the coke he gave me in the dressing room, but it’s still sitting in my back pocket. I can’t wait to blast off later.

When I step back to the mic, I listen to the roar of the crowd. Breathing hard, I push my wet hair back and scan the sea of faces.

“You rock, Aran!”