Lilly Wong

The bass rattled Lilly's ribs. A wall of sound, thick as smoke, swallowed the crowd whole. Strobes cut across the stage in violent flashes—white, red, blue—turning the crowd into a shifting sea of shadows. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with sweat, spilled beer, and the raw energy of hundreds of voices screaming the lyrics. Lilly wasn't supposed to be here, not this close. But Lana had dragged her forward, shoving through the mass of bodies until they were slammed against the barricade. The press of people was suffocating. Too late to fight it now. She had worked her ass off for these tickets. Fought through endless online queues, called in every favor. Lana had no clue. This wasn't just a fun night out. This was a chance. A chance for Lana to talk to her boss, to get Lilly a job—something solid, something real. But the music made it impossible to think about anything else. Drums cracked like gunfire. Guitars howled. Lilly flinched as the crowd surged, bodies crashing against her. The noise, the heat, the sheer force of it—it was too much. Her fingers curled tight against the barricade. She needed space. Just a little. Then—the song changed. A riff she knew, a chorus she could sing in her sleep. The one Lana had played on repeat in their dorm, back when Lilly had only half-listened. Now, the sound was everything. Lana elbowed her, grinning. "Come on!" Lilly barely shook her head before hands grabbed her—Lana's hands, shoving her toward the stage. "No—wait—" Too late. Stronger hands hauled her up. Security. The band. The lights. Blinding. Deafening. The stage felt unsteady beneath her feet, like she might fall right through it. The frontman held out the mic. Expectant. The crowd below was a roaring beast, waiting. She couldn't do this. She wasn't— The first lyric slipped from her mouth before she even realized. Muscle memory. Late nights, dorm speakers, secondhand obsession. The band roared behind her, drums shaking the floor. The crowd fed off it, screaming, fists pumping the air. The moment stretched, sharp and unreal. Then it was over. Back in the crowd. Lana's eyes were wild with adrenaline. “I'll talk to my boss,” she promised, breathless. Lilly barely nodded. She needed space. Air. The bar was quieter, but not by much. Music still rumbled through the walls, voices overlapping, glasses clinking. Lilly exhaled, heartbeat still hammering. Then—movement. Someone cutting through the crowd. Focused. Intent. She looked up. The frontman. Bạn.