The air inside The Abyss is thick with heat, sweat, and something feral. The crowd is an organism, pulsing, writhing, a beast with no restraint. People dance, shove, fight, but no one actually cares—this is ritual. The mosh pits are a cyclone of bodies, shirts ripped, knuckles split, bass vibrating through muscle and bone. The smell of beer, blood, and adrenaline clings to the walls like a living thing.

Mark can taste the exhaustion in his throat, his skin slick with sweat. His muscles ache, his fingers feel raw, but none of it matters. The energy in the room is at its peak—right at that point where music isn’t just sound anymore, it’s a force of nature.

As they prepare for their final song, Mark catches movement at the front of the stage.

It’s her.

The girl from outside. The girl he’s seen at every performance.

She’s pressed against the barricade, her pale face tilted upward, her sharp eyes locked only on him.

She’s draped in goth schoolgirl attire, her black skirt and striped stockings clinging to rain-dampened skin, a look that is both intentional and effortless. The Doom Train logo on her T-shirt glows faintly under the pulsing lights, but it’s her expression that makes Mark’s stomach tighten.

She’s holding a beer—his beer. His favorite kind.

She tilts it to her lips, drinking slow, deliberate. The way her throat moves as she swallows makes something uncomfortable twist in his gut. It isn’t just the way she’s looking at him—it’s the game she’s playing.

Flirty, but distant. Cold, but hungry.

Like a serial killer taking their time before moving in for the kill.

Her lips curl into a small, knowing smile, and Mark feels the air in his lungs lock tight.

Her dark eyes cut through the distance between them, pulling him in.

It’s not just familiarity. It’s something deeper. Something primal, raw, filled with need—but whose need, Mark isn’t sure.

His fingers hesitate for a split second on the frets, a mistake so small the crowd doesn’t notice—but he does.

His breathing is heavier now. His pulse is in his throat. He can’t look away.

And neither can she.

Dakota snaps her sticks together in a quick count, pulling him back to reality. Gustavo leans into the mic, his voice a guttural roar. “This one’s for all the damned souls out there! It’s time for ‘The Raven’s Caw!’”

The crowd erupts as Mark tears into the opening riff, a series of high, discordant notes that cascade downward into a dark, grinding rhythm. Silo’s keyboards join in, layering the sound with a spectral melody that sends shivers through the room. Dakota’s drums hammer like the beating of wings, relentless and unyielding, driving the song forward with brutal precision.

Gustavo’s voice rises, a raw and commanding presence that demands the room’s attention:

"In shadows deep, the night takes flight,

A raven calls in endless night.

Its wings of coal, its eyes of flame,

It whispers truths, it speaks my name."

The lights dim, a single spotlight illuminating Gustavo as he leans into the mic, his voice dropping to a guttural growl:

"Through storms and ash, the caw does call,

A guide for the damned, a fate for all.

Its wings cut air, its shadow grows,

The raven leads where no one knows."

Mark’s fingers fly across the fretboard, the solo rising like a piercing cry that splits the air. The crowd surges, their bodies crashing together in waves as the mosh pits expand. People scream the lyrics, their voices hoarse and raw as they follow Gustavo’s lead.

At the edge of the stage, the girl doesn’t move. She remains still, her focus unbroken. Her dark eyes bore into Mark’s, her smile faint but unnerving. He feels it again that tether, that connection. It isn’t the adoration of a fan; it’s something deeper, something that makes his skin crawl even as it compels him to keep looking.

The chorus hits, and Gustavo’s voice roars above the chaos:

"The raven flies, its shadow falls,

A silent harbinger, the damned it calls.

Its talons sharp, its wings of dread,

It calls the living and claims the dead."

Mark leans into the music, his guitar screaming with raw emotion as the chorus repeats. The sound is a cacophony of rage and despair, a storm of noise that mirrors the chaos of the crowd. Beer splashes against the stage, someone’s drink thrown in the frenzy, but Mark doesn’t flinch. His gaze flicks back to the girl.

She mouths the words along with Gustavo, her lips forming the haunting refrain: “The raven flies, its shadow falls...” Her smile widens, her expression shifting from hunger to something almost triumphant. The connection between them tightens, an invisible cord pulling at Mark’s thoughts, his focus. His chest feels heavy, like the air itself is conspiring against him.

The song surges toward its climax, Dakota’s drums pounding like a heartbeat. Silo’s keyboards spiral into a frenzied melody that twists through the air like a ghostly wail. Gustavo’s voice rises to a roar, the final verse cutting through the noise like a blade:

"The caw does echo, the shadows grow,

The raven waits where mortals go.

Its wings of black, its eyes of flame,

It whispers truths, it claims my name."

Mark’s guitar screams into the final solo, the notes bending and twisting with a rawness that sets his teeth on edge. The crowd roars, their voices blending into one, a chaotic hymn to the music. The girl doesn’t cheer, doesn’t scream. She just stares, her eyes locked onto his as if she’s looking straight through him.

The final chord rings out, the sound reverberating through the room as the lights dim. For a moment, the bar is silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the crowd. Then the applause erupts, a deafening roar that shakes the walls.

Mark steps back, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his skin as he grabs his beer from the edge of the stage. He drinks deeply, the bitter burn of alcohol grounding him, but there’s something crawling under his skin that refuses to leave. His eyes flick to the front of the stage—to where she was. The girl. But she’s gone.

His fingers tighten around the bottle. He knows she was there—had seen her through the haze of lights, staring, drinking his beer, wearing that small, knowing smile—but she disappeared before the last note even faded.

After the performance, Mark lingers by the bar, barely participating in the band’s post-set revelry. Dakota sits in the center of it all, legs kicked up on a chair, surrounded by a mix of wide-eyed groupies vying for her attention—both men and women. A gorgeous alt girl with a buzzed head leans into her, tracing the tattoo on Dakota’s arm. A guy with a pierced eyebrow watches like a wolf waiting for an opening, while another girl, small and fidgety, keeps nervously adjusting her fishnets, hoping to be noticed. Dakota, as always, is utterly indifferent. She drinks her whiskey, taps a cigarette against the table, and lets them fight over the scraps of her attention, occasionally throwing out a smirk or a sharp remark that keeps them hanging on her every word.

Across the room, Gustavo is on a mission, slowly draining the bar dry, a line of empty glasses forming a perimeter around him. He laughs loudly, boisterous, his deep voice booming as he smacks another bassist on the back so hard the guy almost falls over.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Silo, on the other hand, is experiencing a very different kind of attention. A nerdy industrial goth girl—thick-rimmed glasses, slick black lipstick, and a corset over a mesh top—has him cornered. She leans in close, her voice low and husky, her fingers tracing the spikes on his sleeveless trench coat like she’s memorizing them. Silo looks like he’s about to self-destruct. Mark watches as the sound guy shifts, clearly panicking, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish as she twists a lock of his hair between her fingers and smirks.

Mark knows her. Hell, everyone in the band does. She’s been around, part of the groupie brigade that followed them from gig to gig. She’s been with everyone in the band except Silo. And right now, the poor bastard looks like he’s debating running straight out the back door.

Mark snorts, shaking his head, and turns his attention back to his drink. At some point, the whiskey stopped burning. At some point, he stopped counting the shots. At some point, he stopped caring how much of his pay he was drinking away.

And still, she lingers in his head. The girl. Flirty, but distant. Cold, but hungry. She wasn’t like the usual groupies—the ones that threw themselves at the band with faux-wild laughter and too much cheap perfume. No. She was something else. She gave him the creeps. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The thought leads him down a darker road. Tiffany. That was the last time he actually cared about someone. Sure, there’d been flings, hookups, nameless girls in back rooms after sets—but none of them mattered. He never let them matter. Not after Tiffany.

The fight had been ugly. Four rounds. That was the deal. Mark took the fall in the fourth round, just like he was paid to do. The problem was, no one told his opponent. The guy went all in, and Mark was too banged up to stop it. By the time it was over, he was fairly certain his ribs were broken, his face a mess of bruises, every breath feeling like fire.

The fight doc patched him up—gave him some pills, but they barely did shit. He had built up a tolerance. Too many fights, too many injuries, too many nights of pain traded for a handful of cheap pharmaceuticals. He drove home in silence, the streetlights blurring through the windshield.

And then, when he stepped inside, he heard it. The sound of meat slapping against meat. The sound of pleasure, unfiltered, unrestrained. Tiffany was never quiet.

Mark stood there, staring at the dark hallway, feeling nothing. He already knew who was in the room. Skanks. Her drug dealer. The same grimy bastard that had been hanging around more than Mark had lately.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t go near the door. He walked past the bedroom, his footsteps slow, measured. The sounds of gasps, moans, bodies colliding filtered through the door, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t say a word.

He stepped into the bathroom, peeling off his bloodied shirt, stepping into the scalding hot water of the shower, letting it burn his skin, trying to feel something. When he stepped out, the bedroom door was closed again. Laughter had been replaced by silence.

Mark dressed in his dirty clothes, grabbed his keys, and dropped them on the counter. And then, he walked out. He never looked back.

By the time he leaves the bar, he’s completely obliterated. The streets glisten under the streetlights, but the night feels wrong. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember deciding to leave, just that his legs started moving. He’s staggering. He’s missing time. Something is watching him. It’s not paranoia. It’s not the whiskey. It’s real.

He stumbles into the alley, thinking it’s a shortcut. The air feels thick, like he’s walking through water. A shadow moves. Not a person. Not something explainable. Something is waiting. Something is hungry.

And then—

“MARK!”

A voice screeches behind him.

Dakota.

He turns, barely processing it.

“You forgot your fucking guitar! AGAIN!”

She’s fuming, standing at the entrance of the alley, his guitar case in one hand, her other flipping him off. Mark blinks. He looks back down the alley.

Nothing’s there.

But something was.

And it still is.

Waiting.

The night is heavy, thick with the stench of rain-soaked asphalt and the lingering stink of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. The alleyway is darker than he remembers, the neon glow of The Abyss reduced to a flickering whisper behind him. His boots splash through shallow puddles, the cold seeping into his bones. He barely feels it.

Three bottles deep into a whiskey-soaked oblivion, Mark stumbles forward, each step sluggish and unfocused. His world tilts, the ground unstable beneath his feet. He meant to take the shortcut to his car. This wasn’t it.

A voice cuts through the haze.

“Hey, rockstar.”

It’s sharp, laced with something ugly. Mark stops, blinking against the sting of alcohol behind his eyes. Shadows shift ahead. Four figures step into the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. Their faces are young, early twenties at most. College-aged, but rough, fueled by something that’s been simmering too long. One of them, a broad-shouldered guy with a shaven head and clenched fists, steps forward.

“You think you’re hot shit?” the bald one sneers. “Stealing our girls with your little guitar?”

Mark exhales slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. He can already see where this is going, but the alcohol in his system makes it all feel distant, unreal. He rolls his shoulders, testing how much control he still has. The answer isn’t promising.

“Walk away,” he says, his voice calm but hoarse. “This isn’t going to end well.”

The bald one steps closer, his lip curling. “Yeah, for who?”

Mark breathes in. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t care enough to fight over some drunken jealousy. The girls they’re pissed about? Groupies. They weren’t stolen. They were willing—eager, even. And they didn’t just sleep with him; they went through the whole band like a backstage buffet.

But these guys don’t want to hear that. They just want to hurt something. Someone.

A fist comes fast, but Mark’s instincts are still buried somewhere beneath the alcohol. He leans back, the punch glancing off his jaw instead of landing full force. His body moves on memory—clumsy but brutal. His counter is instinctual, a hard jab to the ribs. The guy staggers, gasping.

The others rush him.

It’s chaos. Mark fights like an animal—no style, just survival. He throws elbows, knees, anything that will keep them off him. A fist slams into his gut, another catches his jaw. His head snaps to the side, the world spinning. He staggers but stays upright. One of them grabs his jacket, tries to wrestle him down. Mark jerks free and swings wild, catching the guy in the throat.

Someone kicks his knee.

He buckles. The pavement is cold and wet under his hand as he catches himself. A boot slams into his ribs. He grunts, rolling with it. His body knows how to take a beating. He’s had years of practice.

Another punch. Another kick.

His head is ringing. The alley spins.

Then pain. Sharp. Sudden.

Mark doesn’t register the knife until it’s already inside him.

His breath catches. The world goes muffled, distant. The warmth spreads fast, wetting his shirt, his jacket. His knees hit the ground. He presses a hand to his side, fingers slipping over something slick and hot.

His own blood.

The moment stretches, surreal. The alley, the flickering neon, the fading echoes of footsteps as they run, they run, cowards. Their rage wasn’t enough to stick around and watch him die.

Mark slumps back against the cold brick wall. His breath is shallow, uneven. The pain is there, but dull, muffled by the alcohol still clouding his senses. He looks down at his hand, at the blood staining his fingers.

He doesn’t care.

He should, but he doesn’t.

A part of him knows he’s dying. Knows he should be panicking, fighting, trying—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. No one’s coming for him. No one will miss him. The world will keep turning, the band will replace him, the fans will forget him.

Just another ghost in the system.

A shiver runs through him. Not from the cold.

From something else.

The air shifts. Thickens.

The alley isn’t empty.

Chains rattle. Soft at first, then louder. The sound isn’t right. It doesn’t belong here. It slithers through the dark like a whisper, like something alive. Mark’s eyes flicker, unfocused. The shadows stretch, deepen. The edges of the alley seem further away, like the walls are pulling back into some endless abyss.

A scent fills his nose. Something wrong, cold, metallic, and rotten. Not just death, but the concept of it, like the essence of every grave ever dug, every last breath ever stolen.

It clings to him.

A slow, creeping sickness curling through his veins, pooling in his lungs, settling deep in his bones. The kind of weight you don’t shake off. The kind that lingers.

The neon above sputters, throwing jagged slashes of color onto the wet pavement. A sickly pink glow cuts across his vision, a cruel contrast to the darkness pressing in from all sides. The city breathes around him—distant laughter, the shuffle of footsteps, the muffled bass thrum of a song he’ll never hear the end of.

Something else stirs beneath it.

A sound, a whisper, a song threading through the static of his mind. It’s soft, barely there, a ghost of a melody laced with sorrow, heavy with inevitability. Strings hum through the air, low and aching. A single, steady beat pulses beneath them, distant yet inescapable. It’s not calling him; it’s welcoming him.

His body protests as he shifts, the movement setting fire to his nerves. The wound in his side pulses, warmth spilling over his fingers, thick and unrelenting. He knows what this is. Knows the way the edges of the world start to soften, how the colors smear together like a bad painting. The neon flickers, struggling to hold its place in a world he’s already slipping from.

Then he feels it, Death. Not as an idea, not as a thought, but as a presence. It lingers beside him, patient. The shadows coil, shifting, watching. It doesn’t need to speak. It doesn’t need to reach out. He already knows.

His breath shudders out, ragged. His fingers tremble as he lifts a shaking hand, reaching for something he doesn’t fully understand. The darkness shifts beneath his touch, solid and not, like holding smoke with weight.

The neon flickers.

The world tilts.

The alley shrinks around him, the walls stretching higher, the light fading, the city pulling away. The song follows, twining through the edges of his mind, bleeding into every crack left in him.

His vision tunnels, black creeping in, swallowing everything but the whisper in the air.

The chains rattle, unseen, coiling tighter. His breath slows.

His pulse stutters.

The neon above him flares like one last defiant spark.

A final breath escapes his lips, fading into the cold.

And then, nothing