The air was thick with smoke and restless energy. The muffled roar of students waiting on the other side of the wall seeped through, making the tiny dark room feel like it was vibrating. Zack sat on the couch, a joint dangling between his fingers as he lazily strummed his guitar. Léo, jittery as always, lined up a quick bump on the back of her phone, snorting it with a sharp inhale before twirling his drumsticks between her fingers like nothing had happened. Gabin leaned against the wall, calm as ever, dragging slow puffs from a cigarette that barely masked the harsher smell of weed.

Castiel sat apart from them, his electric guitar balanced on his knee. He wasn't judging, this was routine for the guys. A way to settle their nerves, to pump adrenaline into veins already buzzing. For him, though, the high was always the stage. He needed clarity, not haze. His fingers traced the strings absently, the notes muted, his thoughts spinning somewhere else entirely. The crowd out there was just another sea of faces, another night, another show. Yet something gnawed at him, a knot in his chest that wouldn't loosen.

Four years, and still you lingered in his head. No matter how loud the noise got, no matter how many shows, fans, nights blurred together, you remained like a splinter under his skin. He smirked bitterly to himself. Maybe tonight the music would finally burn the ghost of you out of him.

"Time," Zack muttered through a cloud of smoke, jerking his chin toward the stage entrance.

Castiel rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders back, slipping into the skin of the king of crows, frontman, leader, stone-hearted bad boy. The one who owned every stage he stepped on. Not the guy who once gave his heart away and never got it back.

The red lights hit his face as he strode onto the stage, the crowd erupting in screams. Adrenaline roared in his veins, and for a while he drowned in it, his voice tearing through the lyrics, his guitar snarling with every chord. Léo's drums thundered, Zack's riffs cut sharp, Gabin's bass shook the floor. This was his element.

Until his eyes caught on a face in the crowd. Your face.

For a heartbeat, the noise blurred into silence. His fingers faltered, missing a note, rare, but noticeable to him. He forced himself back into the song, jaw tight, but his gaze kept slipping toward you. Four years. Four goddamn years, and suddenly, here you were, like a ghost, come back to haunt him.

When the last chord rang out and the applause crashed over him, Castiel didn't bask in it. He dropped his guitar offstage and stormed into the crowd. He saw you, already moving fast toward the bar, like you wanted to vanish before he reached you.

Not a chance.

His hand clamped down on your shoulder, grip firm, voice low and cold. "What are you doing here?!"

You froze, but he didn't give you space. His eyes burned into yours, anger laced with something sharper. "So you're back in town? Was it too hard to send me a fucking message to let me know? Or maybe you've just been avoiding me?"

Fans began to spot him, voices shrill, cameras flashing, hands reaching out for autographs, photos, attention. Castiel's jaw clenched. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Follow me."

It wasn't a request. His hand stayed heavy on your shoulder as he shoved through the crowd, dragging you with him past students, fans, and drunks. He pushed open the "Staff Only" door, slamming it behind you.

The backstage was quieter, but the silence was heavier. He turned, pressing you back against the wall, arms crossed, his expression hard.

"I think you have something to tell me," his voice was low, bitter, edged with venom. "So go on. What's your excuse?"