Mark parks his car three blocks away, pulling into the first open spot he can find. The rain pours in steady sheets, pooling in the uneven asphalt and cascading in rivulets down the gutters. The city churns around him, alive with its usual chaos—honking horns, screeching brakes, and the muffled hum of music leaking from bars and clubs.
As he steps out, rain immediately soaks into his jacket. He slings the guitar case over his shoulder, adjusting the strap as he keeps walking. The cold bites at his skin, but he ignores it, weaving through the foot traffic clogging the sidewalks. Most people huddle beneath awnings, their conversations blending into a low, frantic hum.
“It was just on my phone,” a man mutters, gesturing toward his friend. “Every screen lit up. Even the billboards—like, all of them at once.”
“Yeah, but dude, the edits? They dropped, like, instantly.” His friend shakes water from his umbrella, laughing. “People remixed the hell out of that beat already. Some of ‘em are fire, I swear.”
“I thought it was some freaky corporate thing, but it’s gotta be a publicity stunt, right?” The first guy grins. “Like, no way that kind of marketing just happens.”
Mark tunes them out, his jaw tightening. He has no idea what they’re talking about. He hadn’t heard anything—his car radio shorted out after the last ghost. Static, then silence. Even when he tried to restart it, the damn thing wouldn’t turn back on. He’s dealt with enough hauntings to know when to leave something alone.
Now, though, with the way people are talking, the flashing screens behind bar windows, and the low pulse of music seeping into the streets, he wonders if maybe he missed more than just another glitch in the system.
Ahead, The Abyss looms in the neon haze, its gaudy sign flickering under the relentless downpour. A line has formed outside, the crowd pressing tightly under the narrow awning to escape the rain. Their voices buzz with excitement, some shouting over the music while others huddle in hushed conversation.
Mark’s boots splash through shallow puddles as he approaches, his face impassive as he scans the people in line. Most ignore him.
But one girl near the middle catches his eye.
She stands apart from the others, the rain soaking through her black dress, streaking the dark makeup smudged beneath her eyes. Her soaked hair clings to her pale face, and when their eyes meet, she doesn't look away.
She mouths something.
Mark stiffens.
Her lips form the words You were made for me.
The words are slow, deliberate. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just watches him with an intensity that twists something deep in his gut.
Mark’s grip tightens around the strap of his guitar case. His pace quickens.
He shivers, not from the cold, but from the weight of her stare pressing into his back as he pushes forward.
Ducking into the narrow alley beside the bar, he slips through the side entrance, propped open with a cracked brick. A group of musicians hauls gear inside, their voices sharp and hurried.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of beer and damp fabric, the dim hallway illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lights. The muffled thrum of music bleeds through the walls—a distorted bassline that vibrates through the floor.
Whatever was happening outside; whatever strange pulse had taken over the city, twisting reality into a game of memes and remixes. It didn’t matter right now.
Right now, there was only the stage.
“Bosco! About fuckin time you showed up!”
The voice is sharp, cutting through the noise.
Mark turns to see Dakota leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like she’s deciding whether to scold him or punch his face in. The fluorescent light glints off her shaved scalp, emphasizing the intricate tattoos swirling over her skin. She taps a drumstick against her thigh, the rhythmic click-click like a countdown to an ass-kicking.
Her glare could strip paint.
She’s a 10 on the hotness scale, but everyone knows she’s a solid dyke, and the last idiot who tried hitting on her nearly lost his balls for it. Mark also knows—through firsthand horror stories from roadies—that she wears a strap-on at all times. And not just any strap-on. Big enough to make most men reconsider their life choices.
Hell, sometimes she even pulls it out on stage just to watch drunk guys gag on it.
And then there were the women she did date—always the same type. The cute, shy kind. The ones you’d find curled up in the corner of a bookstore, oversized sweaters hanging off one shoulder, sipping tea while highlighting passages in a battered paperback. Sweet, quiet girls with big eyes and soft voices; the kind who looked like they’d never even seen a mosh pit, let alone survived one.
How Dakota, a woman who could terrify a grown man with a glance, kept ending up with soft-spoken bookworms who looked like they might apologize for existing, Mark would never understand.
“You’re late,” she says, her tone icy. “Again.”
“Traffic,” Mark mutters, brushing past her.
“Bullshit,” Gax shoots back. “Silo’s already setting up, but Gustavo? He’s been pacing like a damn bull in a pen.”
Mark enters the greenroom, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Silo, their wiry sound guy, is crouched by a rack of cables, his fingers flying as he adjusts levels on a portable mixer. He glances up as Mark walks in, his face a mixture of relief and irritation.
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The kid barely looks old enough to drink a tall, skinny, maybe 22 at most, but he’s a wizard with electronics. His short, punk-styled hair is a chaotic mess of clashing colors, dyed in jagged streaks like he lost a bet with a neon sign. A pair of welding goggles sits perched on his head, pushed up for now but always within reach, like he might need to weld something mid-show.
He wears a long, sleeveless trench coat, the back emblazoned with the Doom Train logo in cracked, blood-red print. The thing is covered in spikes, a nightmare in the pit if he ever decided to stage dive, though knowing Silo, it’s more of a fashion statement than a functional weapon.
Still crouched by the gear, he flicks a few switches, muttering under his breath before shooting Mark a sharp look. "You almost blew it, man," he says. "I had to fight with the stage manager just to keep us on. We’re second to last now, but if you’d been another ten minutes—"
“I’m here,” Mark interrupts, setting his guitar case on the floor. “Relax.”
Across the room, Gustavo, better known as Da'Train, is pacing back and forth beside the gear, his massive frame radiating tension.
At nearly seven feet tall and pushing 300 pounds, he looks like he could suplex a motorcycle and then shotgun a beer over the wreckage. His arms are thick, corded with muscle, and covered in tattoos, a chaotic mix of old-school metal imagery, flaming skulls, and anarchy symbols inked across his skin like a battle map.
His mohawk stands a full three feet tall, spiked so rigidly that Mark still isn’t convinced it isn’t just spray paint. The colors shift every show, but tonight, it’s a full rainbow spectrum, the neon hues standing out in stark contrast against his heavily pierced face. Rings, studs, and bars glint under the dim greenroom lights, a constellation of metal on an already brutal-looking guy.
He wears a sleeveless Doom Train motorcycle jacket, the shoulders lined with brutal spikes, and covered in patches from old-school metal bands and anarchy slogans stitched like battle scars. Beneath it, a massive Doom Train T-shirt stretches over his chest, the faded logo distorted by the sheer size of him.
His cutoff cargo BDUs, splashed in red, white, black, and grey, are stuffed with so many chains and carabiners that he jingles when he moves. His knee-high tanker boots gleam with polished spikes, each stomp hitting the floor like a war drum.
Looking up, he glares at Mark, thick arms crossed over his chest.
“If we’d lost the slot, I’d have broken your nose again,” he growls, his voice a deep, gravel-raked rumble, equal parts boisterous threat and absolute certainty.
Mark ignores the threat, kneeling to open his guitar case. The instrument gleams in the dim light, its polished surface reflecting the chaotic clutter of the greenroom. He runs his fingers over the strings, the tension familiar and grounding.
“Third up,” Gax says, still leaning against the doorframe. “Grave Chain’s closing, so we’ve got some breathing room. Don’t screw it up, Bosco.”
Mark nods, tuning out her words as he checks the frets and adjusts the tuning pegs. The music from the stage grows louder, the crowd’s cheers filtering through the walls. He doesn’t care about the lineup, the tension, or the rain outside. All that matters is the guitar in his hands. It’s the only thing that ever makes sense.
The crowd roars as Mark steps onto the stage, the noise a living thing that claws at his senses. The air inside The Abyss is thick, humid with body heat, reeking of sweat, beer, and hormones. Hundreds of people pack the floor, a writhing sea of humanity pressed shoulder to shoulder, their collective energy pulsing with the music that throbs through the speakers. Neon lights flicker and strobe, casting jagged shadows across sticky walls from years of spilled drinks.
Mark sets his beer bottle on the edge of the stage, the glass glinting under the shifting lights. He rolls his shoulders, gripping the neck of his guitar like a weapon. The crowd's anticipation is palpable, their faces glowing with excitement as they scream for more. Behind him, Dakota sits at the drum kit, her shaved head gleaming with sweat. She catches his eye and grins, a devilish look that says, don’t screw this up.
Silo gives him a thumbs-up from the soundboard, the wiry tech already tweaking the mix to ensure the guitars roar. Gustavo leans into the mic, his massive frame radiating confidence. “Alright, Abyss,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill through the crowd. “You ready for this?”
The crowd cheers.
Gustavo yells louder, “I said, are you mother fuckers ready for this?”
The response is deafening.
Dakota slams her sticks together in a quick four-count, and the band launches into their first hit single, “Iron Specter.”
The opening riff screams from Mark’s guitar, a cascade of distorted notes that cut through the humid air like a blade. Silo’s keyboards layer in, their industrial tones adding an eerie backdrop that twists and writhes through the sound. Dakota’s drums hit like cannon fire, a relentless rhythm that drives the song forward with the force of a runaway train.
Mark loses himself in the music, his fingers moving instinctively across the frets. The crowd surges in response, their bodies swaying and colliding as the music commands them. Gustavo’s guttural voice roars through the speakers, his lyrics painting a vivid picture of despair and inevitability:
"Steel screams in the dead of night,
Iron nails pierce through the light.
Rolling shadows on haunted rails,
A ghost train rides where reason fails."
The lights strobe in time with the beat, casting the stage in alternating flashes of crimson and shadow. Mark leans into his solo, the notes bending and wailing like they’re alive, crying out from some haunted abyss. The crowd’s energy swells, their voices rising as they sing along to the chorus:
"Ride the rails of eternity,
Where the iron specter claims the free.
Bound by chains of fire and stone,
No one escapes the ghost train’s throne."
Mark’s fingers dance across the strings, his solo a blistering cascade of sound that tears through the room. The music builds in intensity, each layer driving the song closer to its breaking point. Dakota’s double-bass pedal thunders like pistons, a relentless machine that carries the song forward. Gustavo’s voice drops to a growl for the next verse, his words dripping with menace:
"Rust and blood in the cold moon’s glow,
Eternal tracks where the damned must go.
The specter calls with its iron wail,
Through the storms and the howling gale."
Silo’s keyboards mimic the wail of a distant train, an otherworldly sound that sends shivers through the crowd. Mark pushes harder, his guitar screaming as the song barrels toward its climax. The crowd surges as one, their fists pumping in rhythm with the relentless beat.
The final chorus hits like a hammer, the band pouring everything they have into the last few moments:
"All aboard, there’s no return,
On tracks of steel, your soul will burn.
Iron nails and shadows reign,
Forever bound to the ghost train’s chain."
Mark throws himself into the closing solo, the notes spiraling higher and higher, a crescendo of raw power that leaves him breathless. The lights dim as the last chord rings out, leaving the room in momentary silence. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the hum of the amplifiers.
Then the crowd erupts, their cheers and screams shaking the walls. Mark lets out a shaky breath, his heart pounding as he glances at his beer on the stage. He grabs it, taking a long swig as Gustavo steps forward, raising his arms in triumph.
“That,” Gustavo says into the mic, his voice hoarse but triumphant, “is why Abyss never quits.”
The crowd roars again, and Mark allows himself a small smile. For a moment, the weight of everything the ghosts, the job earlier that night, the memory of the girl in the line fades into the background. Here, in the music, he is free.
The energy in the bar remains electric, the crowd swelling with each song. Bodies collide in the writhing chaos of mosh pits, beer sloshing from plastic cups as people shove and surge to the relentless rhythm. The air is stifling, thick with sweat and the acrid tang of spilled drinks. Lights flash and strobe, casting the room in chaotic bursts of color that mirror the pandemonium below.
Mark barely notices the heat or the chaos. His focus is on the music. The band tears through their setlist with the precision of veterans, each song building on the last. Dakota’s drums thunder, Gustavo’s growls cut through the air like a storm, and Silo’s keyboards weave an eerie undercurrent that adds a haunting edge to the performance. Mark’s guitar screams and wails, the distortion blending with the crowd’s roars as they lose themselves in the music.