Chapter 3 — Band Rehearsals and First Impressions

Valoria

The dusty air clings to my throat as I step carefully over a pile of shattered glass, the jagged edges glinting faintly under the weak light filtering through the broken windows. The factory feels alive in its own ruined way, the graffiti on the walls like screams frozen in color, some vibrant, others dulled by years of grime. The faint hum of forest insects drifts in from somewhere, mingling with the metallic smell of rust and damp concrete, giving the space an unsettling pulse. I tighten my grip on my sketchbook, its edges warm against my fingers, and take another tentative step forward.

“This better not be some elaborate setup to murder me,” I mutter under my breath, voice low but sharp enough to echo faintly in the cavernous space. The sound disappears quickly, swallowed by the vast emptiness. My thumb brushes over the crescent moon pendant at my neck, the cool curve steadying the nervous energy swirling in my chest. I remind myself for the hundredth time that I didn’t have to come here. But something—curiosity, maybe, or the faint hum of the band’s energy still thrumming under my skin since the Velvet Room—had nudged me out the door.

Ahead, the faint thrum of a guitar snakes through the air, pulling me deeper into the shadows. My sneakers crunch softly on debris, each step stretching the tension in my chest tighter. The sound grows louder, sharper, with each step, like a thread drawing me toward something fragile and electric. My thoughts flicker between fear and an unnameable pull that feels disturbingly close to hope.

Finally, I round a corner and stop dead in my tracks. The space opens before me, the hollowed-out core of the factory transformed into something alive. Strings of fairy lights are draped haphazardly over crumbling walls, their warm glow softening the grittiness of the space. A sagging couch sits off to one side, mismatched amps and instruments scattered across the floor like puzzle pieces in various stages of assembly. The air buzzes faintly—not just from the guitar but from something intangible, the crackle of creativity unfurling in the dark.

Tom is hunched over his guitar, his fingers moving with a kind of reckless precision that makes the notes shimmer and twist in the air. His locs are tied back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to frame his serious expression. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up, revealing tanned forearms that flex slightly with each chord. He’s completely absorbed, his body shifting subtly in time with the music. There’s an intensity to him, like he’s pulling something raw and untouchable from the strings, channeling it until the whole room seems to thrum with the same energy.

Bill is perched on the couch, scrolling through his phone but somehow managing to look effortlessly poised, like a stage actor waiting for his cue. His velvet jacket catches the light, the silver embroidery glinting in a way that’s almost theatrical. Across the room, a drummer taps idly at his kit, the rhythm falling into sync with the guitar’s melody, while another guy mutters under his breath as he fiddles with a bass amp.

For a moment, I hesitate in the shadows, hyperaware of how out of place I must look here. My jeans feel too ordinary, my sneakers too clean. But before I can decide whether to bolt, Bill glances up and breaks into a grin wide enough to rival the fairy lights. “And there she is! Our resident artist has arrived.”

Four pairs of eyes swivel toward me, each a distinct shade of curiosity—or, in Tom’s case, something closer to suspicion.

“I, uh—” My voice falters. I lift my sketchbook slightly, like an awkward peace offering. “You said I could come sketch.”

“Not late, are you?” Bill says, leaping up like some theatrical ringleader. “No, no, you’re perfectly on time. Come in, come in. Don’t be shy.”

“Not really my default setting,” I mutter, but I let him usher me forward, my steps hesitant.

Tom’s gaze flicks to me briefly before sliding back to his guitar. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” he says, his tone flat, almost dismissive.

The words prickle under my skin, but I force a smirk, letting sarcasm shield me. “What can I say? I was promised something impressive. Still waiting to see it.”

His fingers pause mid-strum, and for the briefest moment, I swear I see his mouth twitch—something caught between annoyance and amusement. But the movement is gone as quickly as it came, his attention snapping back to his guitar.

“Ignore him,” Bill says, patting my shoulder. “Tom thinks brooding is a sport.”

“Noted.” I drop onto the sagging couch, pulling my sketchbook into my lap like a shield between me and the room’s chaos.

Bill spins toward the band, his grin never faltering. “Places, everyone! Let’s give Valoria something worth sketching.”

The next hour is a blur of music and movement. The band runs through a handful of songs, stopping and starting for arguments that range from tempo to lyrics to Tom’s playing being “needlessly flashy” (“It’s called style, Bill. Look it up.”). I keep my head down, my pencil moving furiously as I try to capture the energy in the room—the jagged lines of Tom’s guitar, the way the drummer leans into each beat like it’s a heartbeat, the sharp angles of Bill’s hand as he gestures dramatically. The space fills with sound, raw and imperfect, but undeniably alive.

I barely notice the music stop until Bill flops onto the couch beside me, leaning over to peer at my sketchbook. “Let’s see the masterpiece.”

I snap the book shut on reflex, clutching it to my chest as heat creeps up my neck. “It’s not finished.”

His pout is almost comically exaggerated. “Oh, come on. You can trust me.”

“You’re also incredibly nosy,” I counter, sharper than I intended. “It’s private.”

Bill holds his hands up in mock surrender, though the curiosity in his eyes doesn’t fade. “All right, all right. I’ll wait. But only because I’m generous.”

“Delusional, maybe,” Tom mutters from across the room, not even looking up.

Bill rolls his eyes. “Says the guy who can’t play a song without showing off.”

Their bickering fades into the background as I flip to a less vulnerable sketch—one of Tom mid-performance, his head bowed, the guitar almost glowing in his hands. My fingers tremble slightly as I hesitate. Showing it feels like peeling back a layer of skin, exposing something I’m not sure I want seen. But before I can overthink it, I turn the sketchbook toward Tom.

His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on the page. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he leans forward, his brows furrowing like he’s trying to figure out how I pulled the image from the air.

“It’s... not bad,” he says finally. His voice is quieter, the usual edge dulled.

“High praise,” I deadpan, snapping the book shut again, my heart thudding harder than it should.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or something softer—but he hides it quickly, leaning back with a smirk. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Before I can respond, Bill claps his hands, breaking the moment. “Break’s over! Back to work, people. Chop chop.”

The band launches into another song, and I sink deeper into the couch, letting the music wash over me. Despite the tension, the crumbling walls, and my own gnawing self-doubt, there’s something about this space—this messy, imperfect chaos—that feels alive.

For the first time in a long while, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—this is a place where I could belong.