The glow of the screen is the only light in the room, casting a dull, artificial pallor over Arson’s already-pale skin. He’s slouched in the creaking desk chair, one leg bouncing absently, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. A half-empty can of Monster sits next to an overflowing ashtray, cigarette butts crushed down into each other like a smog-drenched graveyard. The air smells of stale cigarette smoke and pizza grease. He hasn’t blinked in minutes.

He should be sleeping. He should be working on music. He should be doing anything other than what he’s doing. Instead, he’s staring at her profile. Reaper Combo’s new guitarist. His replacement.

She’s posted something new—another stage shot. Bright lights. Fingers curled around the neck of his guitar. Or not his, not anymore, but it should have been. He doesn’t even recognize the instrument Jax gave her, some custom bullshit with a glossy finish, like they’re dressing her up to be the poster girl of his band. The image glows on his monitor, taunting him with every pixel.

His thumb hovers over the like button. He doesn’t press it. Instead, he scrolls. The comments are full of the usual brain-dead drivel. God she’s so hot—of course, of course, because they don’t actually care about the music, they never did, they just want some pretty face to jerk off to.