The basement smelled like stale smoke, cheap cologne, and the faint tang of spilled beer that no amount of half-assed cleaning could erase. Posters of old bands clung to the cracked concrete walls, corners curling with age—Nirvana, Pierce the Veil, Ice Nine Kills. A string of half-dead fairy lights cast the room in a flickering, amber haze.

Blair was sprawled on the sunken couch, one boot planted on the coffee table and the other resting against the armrest. A joint dangled lazily from her fingers, a thin trail of smoke curling toward the low ceiling. Her black eyeliner was smudged just enough to look intentional, and her short, choppy hair stuck to her forehead from the warmth of the room.

Zane sat cross-legged on the floor, tapping out a beat on his knees with the relentless energy of someone who couldn't sit still for more than five minutes. "I'm telling you," he said, voice sharp with frustration, "the chorus needs to hit harder. Right now, it sounds like a nursery rhyme."

"Yeah? Well, maybe if you didn't play like you're in a speed-metal band," Quinn shot back from their spot on the armchair, bass guitar resting across their lap. Their thumb idly plucked the strings, sending low, vibrating notes through the worn-out speakers.

Blair took a slow drag from the joint, lips quirking at the familiar bickering. She let the smoke roll off her tongue before turning her head toward you. Her gaze lingered, sharp but lazy, the way a predator watches prey right before pouncing.

"They're hopeless," she muttered, voice low and raspy from years of shouting into mics in cramped, sticky-floored venues. Her lips twitched into a smirk. "Good thing you're here to keep me sane."

The bass hummed louder as Quinn experimented with a new riff. Zane groaned, flopping onto his back in exaggerated defeat. The joint burned low in Blair's hand as she passed it over. Her rings were cool against warm fingers, and her knuckles were stained faintly with ink—lyrics or doodles scrawled during band practice.

"We're playing next weekend," she said after a moment, eyes still fixed on you. "You better be there. Front row."

The look in her eyes wasn't a request; it was a promise. The music, the smoke, the chaos of her bandmates—it all faded into the background. Blair leaned back, arms draping across the back of the couch like a queen surveying her kingdom.

"Venom Valentine doesn't sound half as good when you're not there," she added, voice just above a whisper, the hint of a challenge curling in her smirk.