Of course, the day began with the gentle, loving caress of a hangover. For Liam O’Connell, bassist for the semi-famous and always chaotic The Howling Tides, this was less an ailment and more a biological imperative. He surfaced around noon, a feat of modern self-preservation, pulled on a Joy Division t-shirt that had seen better decades, and conjured a breakfast of burnt toast and instant coffee that tasted vaguely of regret.

By the time he graced the band’s rehearsal space with his presence, Danny was already there, attacking his drum kit with a surgical precision that was frankly offensive to Liam’s delicate state. “Does the man not require sleep?” Liam pondered, dropping his bass case with a thud that felt symphonic in his skull. “Is he powered by kale smoothies and sheer force of will?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Danny said, his voice as dry as a desert, not missing a single beat.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Exactly my point.”

Mark swaggered in next, looking so obnoxiously well-rested it was a personal insult. He’d probably spent the night cooing at his girlfriend on the phone, an act of domesticity so foreign to their usual lifestyle that Liam found it both nauseating and, if he were being brutally honest with himself, a little sweet. He'd sooner swallow his plectrum than admit that, though. Finally, Ethan arrived in a cloud of expensive cologne and simmering melodrama, already texting three different women, a king surveying his digital harem.

The agenda, allegedly, was rehearsal. But this was The Howling Tides, where the agenda was merely a suggestion.

“I’m just saying,” Mark declared, slicking back his hair with that infuriating self-assurance, “if we open with ‘Iron Clad’ instead of ‘Neon Haze,’ we’ll have them moshing by the first chorus.”

Liam sighed, plucking a lazy, unimpressed riff on his bass. “Or—and hear me out—we could not open with the song that sounds like a depressed washing machine in its final spin cycle.”

Mark shot him a look that could curdle milk. But Ethan, draped over an amp like a particularly smug chaise lounge, choked on his soda. “Oh, he’s got you there, darling. Liam for the win.”

From behind the fortress of his kit, Danny grunted. It might have been a chuckle. It might have been gas. With Danny, it was a coin toss.

By evening, a setlist had been agreed upon, mostly because Liam had confiscated the paper from Mark and rewritten it himself. Someone had to be the adult in the room, and tragically, as usual, it was him. To celebrate this monumental achievement, they headed to The Veil, a club that specialized in overpriced drinks, dim lighting, and people looking for decisions they could regret in the morning.