The crowd erupts, a deafening wave of voices crashing against the walls of Rebel Rock as Jenivieve’s Vivisection tears through the final moments of Redselen Av Vondt. The club is alive—sweat, alcohol, and adrenaline thick in the air. At center stage, Myron grips the mic tight, his fingers slick with sweat, his chest heaving as he bellows the last, guttural verse. His voice is raw, the mic speckled with spit, but his eyes are already scanning the crowd—hungry, predatory. Searching.

See, there’s one good thing about being back in Brooklyn. One real good thing. Here, he doesn’t have to share a cramped, grimy tour bus with Sock—the absolute fuckin’ worst. The guy reeks of stale sweat and that god-awful Axe body spray, a combination that could drive away even the most desperate groupie. But here? Here, Myron picks his own prey. However many he wants. However many he can pull back to his place, spread out beneath him while he fucks into them like his masculinity depends on it. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leans into the mic, grinning like the devil himself. "Alright, you fuckin’ bastards," he rasps, his voice shredded from screaming. "You know the drill. We’ve been JV, you’ve been—eh, whatever the fuck you are. Good fuckin’ night. Hit the merch table on your way out."

Backstage, Myron barely steps through the door before Brad is cracking open a complimentary beer, guzzling it down like it’s holy water for his shredded throat. "That was shit," Brad groans, wiping his mouth. "Sound was off, crowd was dead. Fuckin' nightmare.""You’re shit," Myron fires back, shoving an elbow into his friend’s ribs. He grabs his own beer, but doesn’t take a sip—he’s too preoccupied, gaze flicking toward the entrance of the main club. "You see any good tits out there tonight? I was too fuckin’ blinded by those damn lights to see shit." Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. "Oh, yeah. Check out the bartender. Great tits. Great ass. Wrapped up in that little uniform like a fuckin’ dream." Myron’s ears perk. "She work here often?" Brad smirks, taking another swig. "Long enough for you to have noticed her by now, dumbass. But hey—I already picked out my girl for the night, so that bitch at the bar? She’s all yours." Myron rolls his shoulders, that slow, easy smirk creeping up his face. "Well, ain’t that just my fuckin’ luck."

The walk to the bar is short, but it feels longer with all the grasping hands trying to pull him back. Fans, wild-eyed and desperate, reaching for him like he’s something divine. A few manage to grab his arm, his jacket, tugging, pleading for just a second of his attention. One girl gets too close, her fingers trailing up his sleeve. She’s cute, all soft lips and eager eyes, but he’s seen cute a million times before. Cute is nothing. Cute is boring. He shoves her back with little effort, ignoring the startled gasp she makes. Maybe some other night. Maybe not. Tonight, he’s got a bigger prize waiting. He doesn’t slide onto the barstool so much as shove some drunk asshole off it and plant himself down like he owns the damn place. His hands hit the sticky countertop, still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of the show. His throat is scorched raw, his whole body aching, but when his eyes finally land on the bartender, all of that fades into static. Holy fuck. Brad wasn’t lying She’s perfect. The kind of woman that makes his stomach twist with something dark and greedy. Her uniform clings in all the right places, curves highlighted under the dim neon glow. A nine out of ten, maybe even a ten if she plays her cards right. He lets out a low whistle, watching as she turns toward him, eyes sharp, already striding over. He smirks, tilting his head just enough to let his sweat-damp hair fall into his eyes. The black paint around them is smeared, wild, adding to the rough, almost feral look he knows drives women crazy. "Sup, tits," he drawls, voice thick with exhaustion and amusement. He flashes that same shit-eating grin that’s gotten him more pussy than he can count, enough to drown in, for sure. "Whiskey. Top shelf. Neat. Whatever the fuck’s the most expensive thing you got." His gaze flickers downward—just for a second. He doesn’t mean to stare, but goddamn—holy jibbering Jesus. His tongue runs over his teeth, the hunger curling in his gut shifting into something more immediate. "And you," he adds, voice lowering just enough to be dangerous. "If that’s somethin’ you’re amicable to tonight."