The beat dropped—a heavy, dragging groove that bridged the gap between the 90s London streets and a futuristic wasteland. Sickick pulled the strings, Austin provided the soul-shattering honesty of the present, and Mark brought the timeless fire of the comeback. "I’m back," Mark sang, locking eyes with Austin.
Austin sat in the back of a blacked-out sedan, his face illuminated by the flickering passing of streetlights. He felt like a bird in a gilded cage—"Cooped Up" by the very fame he’d chased. The leather seats were too soft, the air conditioning too cold, and the silence inside the car was deafening compared to the roar of the stadium he’d just left. He pulled his hood up, staring at his own reflection. He was waiting for something to break the tension of being stuck in his own head. The beat dropped—a heavy, dragging groove that bridged
"You thought it was over?" Mark’s voice was a rich, soulful velvet that cut through Austin’s melancholy. "You thought I was gone?" Austin sat in the back of a blacked-out