Chapter 4

William

The dive bar is exactly what I expected—loud, chaotic, and kind of a mess. Rye had somehow roped Jax, Stella, and Brenna into coming out, and now the place is a full-on circus. The music blares, a distorted mix of old rock and modern hits, and the floor shakes with the stomping of feet and the clinking of glass. Drinks are flowing freely, sloshing from one glass to another, like it's a game of survival. Everyone's throwing themselves into the mix, like they're all trying to outdo each other. It's the kind of shitshow Rye thrives in, and somehow, I get sucked into it too.

We're all here, drinking, laughing, and giving each other shit like we've done a thousand times before. It's familiar, it's easy, and I'm caught up in it, but I also want to be out of it. Maybe it's the way I've been feeling lately, or maybe it's just that I'm getting tired of the same old routine. Either way, I'm in it, but I'm also... not in it. If that makes sense.

Rye's the first to kick things off, acting stupid and getting the group riled up. His laugh is infectious, and the crowd feeds off of it, roaring louder with every punchline. Jax's swagger is in full effect as he stands at the center of the group, all smooth and cocky like he owns the place. Stella's got that carefree laugh of hers that I could hear a mile away. It's a sound that reminds me of summer nights and too many beers. Brenna's grinning like she knows something the rest of us don't, her eyes glinting with a playful challenge. They've all got that spark in their eyes—the one that tells me they're not thinking about tomorrow. They're just living for the moment, caught in the wild, reckless energy that fills the bar. And for a second, I envy them.

I sip my drink, but I don't feel the buzz. The alcohol's supposed to take the edge off, right? But it's not doing anything for me. Not even a little bit. It's like the world's spinning faster than I can catch up with, and I'm just... here. Detached. Don't even want to feel it. The more I stay sober, the more I realize I'm just waiting. Waiting for the moment when it's all over, when the noise dies down, and the laughter fades into nothing. I'm hoping for silence. For something real. But for now, I'm stuck in this fucking moment, and there's no getting out of it.

Women come up to me, like they always do. At first, I entertain the conversation, smile, play along, let them feel like I'm present. It's the dance I've been doing for years—just enough to make them feel noticed, just enough to make them feel like they've got me. But I never let it go beyond that. I'm not like I used to be. Not anymore. I've got this... space in my mind, this strange emptiness that's filling up the cracks I didn't even know were there. And it's becoming more obvious with every passing minute. I can't even get lost in the sound of their voices anymore.

It's not like I'm the same person, but I feel like I'm drifting. Like I'm not really here, not in the way they all are. I'm just... floating, a part of it, but not really a part of it at all. No one seems to notice the difference. No one picks up on it. They talk to me the same way they always have. And I'm just... here. Observing. Waiting for the moment to end, so I can get out.

As the night drags on, I feel like I'm playing my part—giving the people what they want—but it's exhausting in a way I can't explain. It's like I'm performing, putting on a show for everyone's benefit, but no one sees the cracks in the facade. They lose themselves in the noise, in the chaos, in the distractions. I find myself watching them, wishing I could just let go like them. But I can't. Not anymore. I can't even remember what it felt like to just be free, to lose myself in the moment like they're doing.

The bar's finally starting to empty out. People filter out slowly, with a few last laughs and lingering hugs before the night ends. Rye, Brenna, and I step outside to wait for a ride. The night air feels cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the bar. Everyone else has already gone home, but I'm stuck here, lingering in the quiet.

Rye tries to lighten the mood, but there's a tiredness in his voice I can't ignore. He's been running hard with the band, and I know the tour's been weighing on him, just like it's been weighing on me. We talk briefly about the upcoming dates, the rehearsals, the last-minute changes that keep popping up. It's all surface-level chatter, nothing that really sticks, but it fills the space.

Brenna chimes in too, her voice light and easy, but her eyes are tired. We've all been running on fumes, trying to keep everything together. The tour's creeping closer, and it's hard to ignore the pressure building in the air.

"Can't believe it's almost time," Brenna says, leaning against the streetlight. "It's been a long road to get here."

"Yeah," Rye says, running a hand through his hair. "But we're almost there. Gonna be one hell of a ride."

I nod, but it's like I'm not really hearing them. I'm just watching the traffic flow, the city moving around us like it doesn't care what I'm feeling. I don't really know what I'm feeling either. But it's not excitement. It's not that rush I used to get before a big show or a new album drop. It's a hollow kind of waiting.

"What are you doing after?"

Rye's voice is casual, but I know him too well to miss the undercurrent. The curiosity. The suspicion.

I don't look at him right away, just keep my gaze on the street ahead, watching the headlights smear through the night, the city humming around us like it doesn't care what I do next.

"Dunno, probably gonna stand here for a few more minutes," I say, rocking back on my heels.

Rye huffs out a breath. "Yeah, I can see that, genius."

I grin, but it's mostly for show. "Maybe I just enjoy a good curb."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't buy it. Not even a little. "Whip, come on. You're up to something."

I finally glance at him, his arms crossed, expression locked somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You always think I'm up to something," I point out.

"Because you usually are." He nudges my shoulder, waiting. "So, what is it this time?"

I exhale through my nose, glancing back at the street. "Just... thinking."

Rye watches me for a beat, long enough to make my skin itch. "About?"

"Stuff," I say. Too vague, too easy, but I don't feel like digging deeper. Rye tilts his head, considering me. "You know you're a pain in the ass, right?"

I stick out my tongue, leaning into the familiar rhythm of us. "That's what they tell me."

Rye and I used to tell each other everything. Since we were kids, it had always been us. Killian and Jax had each other. But Rye? He is my best friend, and I am his.

But things change. People change.

Not in a bad way. Brenna and Rye were inevitable, written in the stars long before either of them clued in. And I wouldn't change that, not for anything. But ever since they found each other, me and Rye? We haven't been the same.

He didn't tell me when his hand was hurting. Didn't let me in when he was chasing after Brenna. I had to hear about it after the fact, like I was just another bystander in his life instead of the guy who used to know him better than anyone. And maybe that's on me, too. Somewhere along the way, I stopped pushing. Stopped asking. Started keeping my own shit to myself.

Still, I miss it. The way we used to be.

Rye rolls his eyes, tipping his chin toward me. "You'll tell me what's going on, yeah?" Again, his voice is casual, but there's something underneath it. A thread, pulling tight.

I don't hesitate. "Aye."

Not a lie. Not exactly. But it's not the whole truth, either.

Rye watches me for a second longer, his gaze steady, sharp. He knows me too well to believe it, but in the end, he lets it go. Not because he buys it—no, he knows I'm full of shit—but because he knows I won't crack unless I want to.

"Right," he mutters, but there's a weight to it, a silent understanding that we're both holding something back.

A beat passes, and the taxi pulls up for them. I watch Rye wave over his shoulder, a smile on his face that's all for Brenna. They're happy. They're in the moment. They say their goodbyes, and I watch them go, pulling each other into the next part of their night, their world.

And I'm just standing here, same as always.

They don't see it. No one does.

But I feel it. The pull, the emptiness, the desire to just... stop. But it doesn't stop. The noise keeps coming. The days keep marching on. And I'm stuck in the middle of it, waiting for something I can't quite put my finger on.

I turn away from the street, the weight of the night pressing down on my shoulders. If someone else were to ask what's going on with me, I'd brush it off without a second thought. But no one does—I've made sure of that. I've gotten too good at keeping everything locked behind a wall, hiding it all away, even from the people who know me best.

It's not their secret to know. Not yet.

The city's pulse is different at this hour. The usual hum of traffic and street noise starts to thin, leaving only the distant sounds of a world that's calmer. I call for a ride, pulling my jacket tighter as I slip into the backseat. I know where I'm going, away from the constant hum of Kill John and the people who think they know me.

I direct the driver through the streets, deeper into the city, into areas where none of the band members or crew would ever think to look for me. It's a part of town they'd never visit. I've made sure of that. This place, this studio—it's my haven. No one knows about it. It's just for me.

When the car finally stops, I hand the driver his fare without a word and step out onto the dimly lit street. The building looms ahead—an old, industrial relic with worn bricks and iron beams that whisper of another time. It's seen better days, sure, but there's a certain beauty in its age, a sense of history woven into its weathered walls. I swipe my badge at the entrance and step inside, the familiar hum of the halls broken only by the sharp clank of the elevator doors. This path is etched into my memory; I've walked it more times than I can count.

I climb the stairs, my mind already racing through the tracks I've been working on. I reach the top floor and unlock the door to the studio, the place that's been my sanctuary for the last few years. I step inside, flicking the lights on and letting out a breath.

The room's filled with equipment—keyboards, guitars, mixing boards—but it's not just the gear that draws me in. Scattered among the familiar are treasures from my travels: a gayageum from South Korea, its strings gleaming in the low light, and a taiko drum from Japan, propped carefully in the corner. They're reminders of the music I've been learning, the traditions and stories I've absorbed. But more than all of it, it's the serenity that pulls me in. The space to think without distractions. Without expectations.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, tracing the air just before I press down, like I'm coaxing the notes to come alive.

I've been working on these tracks for a while now. It's not a quick process. Not when I'm this invested. I want every note to carry weight, every sound to feel real. There's no rush here. The only deadlines are the ones I give myself.

I grab my phone from the desk, scrolling through the audio files I've been collecting. The recordings are raw, unpolished, but that's what I love about them. They carry the kind of authenticity I can't replicate with any instrument. It's the rhythm of the world, and it makes its way into everything I do.

I play one of the sounds back through the speakers. It's from a street corner in Seoul—just a quick snippet of life, the distant rumble of a passing bus and the faint chatter of pedestrians. There's something in it that resonates, something that clicks. I start layering it into the track, mixing it with the soft piano riff I've been working on. The sound is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it adds a depth to the music, an atmosphere that nothing else could achieve.

As I blend the sounds together, I feel the music start to take shape. It's delicate, fragile even. I hit record and begin to hum into the mic, keeping my voice soft, almost like I'm afraid to disturb the space I've created. The lyrics come slowly—it's a trickle at first, just a few words at a time. But the more I sit with it, the more the meaning reveals itself. It's about longing, the kind of emotion that's too deep for words but desperate to be felt.

The track evolves, slowly but surely, with each layer of sound I add. A chord progression here, a delicate bassline there. I bring in a soft electric guitar, not for the distortion, but for the subtlety, the warmth it adds to the track. It feels like the song is breathing, growing with every decision I make.

I sit back in the chair for a moment, taking it all in. There's something about this process that calms me, like every sound, every beat, is guiding me toward something I haven't fully understood yet. It's not about perfection—it's about capturing a feeling, a moment in time. Each piece is like a puzzle, and when it all clicks, when everything falls into place, it feels like I'm uncovering something I didn't know was there.

Sometimes, I'll stop and just listen. Not to the music itself, but to the world outside the window. The sounds seep into my mind—an old truck passing by, the whistle of the wind, the distant chatter of a couple walking down the street. It's all music. It all fits.

I lose track of time easily in here. The hours slip away, unnoticed, and before I know it, the first light of dawn is creeping in through the high windows. It's a breathtaking sight—the city still shrouded in a haze of night, but the first hints of orange and pink are starting to bleed across the sky. It's one of those moments I don't even try to capture with a camera; the beauty is too fleeting.

I'm no stranger to pulling all-nighters in this studio, especially when I get lost in a song. And tonight, or this morning—whenever it is—I've done it again. The time on my phone pulls me out of the haze, showing me that it's almost time to meet up with the guys for the social media shoots before the tour kicks off. I sigh, knowing the grind's about to start again. I quickly clean up my workspace, putting away my equipment, shutting down the systems, and scribbling a few final lyrics down in my notebook. The songs are still evolving, but I don't want to lose these thoughts, these moments of clarity.

I leave the studio, the door clicking shut behind me as I step into the early morning air. The streets are emptier now, and there's a certain peacefulness that comes with being up this early—before the rush, before the world wakes up. I pull my jacket tighter around myself and walk toward the nearest café, feeling the cool morning air brush past me.

It's almost surreal, moving through the city as if I'm just another face in the crowd. Despite being part of Kill John, I'm not the one most people recognize. Killian's usually in the spotlight, always posing for photos or sharing updates. Jax's charisma gets all the attention. Even Rye's got his charm. Me? I'm the drummer. The one behind the scenes, blending into the background.

And I like it that way.

I've gotten used to this kind of peace when I'm out alone. It's a rare kind of solitude I don't take for granted. The messiness of fame, of being part of something so big, can be suffocating sometimes. But when I walk the streets alone, without the weight of expectation or the flashing lights of cameras, I can just breathe. I can watch the world move around me, unnoticed.

I step into the café, the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods hitting me instantly. I order a large coffee and something quick to eat, finding a seat by the window. I sip my drink slowly, watching the morning unfold outside. People pass by, oblivious to me. They don't know who I am or what I'm part of, and I don't mind it one bit. It's almost refreshing to be just a guy in a jacket, enjoying his coffee before the day begins.

I watch a couple walking their dog, the woman laughing as the dog pulls ahead, and a businessman in a hurry, his phone pressed to his ear as he walks too fast, missing the small details of the city around him. The usual morning madness, the usual rhythms of life. It's not as exciting as the highs of a concert or a photo shoot, but there's a beauty in these moments. I'm not in a rush, not yet. I can just exist here, soaking it all in.

I finish my coffee, check the time, and stand up to leave, the tranquility of the morning still hanging around me. As I walk back out onto the streets, I slip into the shadows again, unseen, unnoticed.

I arrive at the shoot location earlier than anyone else, the stillness of the morning following me like a shadow as I make my way into the space. The studio's a little colder than I'd like, but it's nothing I can't handle. I find the hair and makeup chair waiting for me and settle in, already feeling the tension from the night's long hours start to fade into the background.

The makeup artists are quick to work, their hands light but efficient as they begin their usual magic. They've done this a thousand times before, smoothing over my tiredness, covering the faint marks of sleepless nights that no one else would notice, but I can feel. They're focused, moving around me with precision. A part of me always feels like I'm slipping into a character when they're done with me—put together, camera-ready, far from the person I've been in my studio all night. But it's just the job, right? Just part of the gig.

The room is empty for now, but I'm used to that. I take a deep breath, leaning back in the chair and closing my eyes for a moment. There's a comfort in the stillness, a sense of calm before the chaos kicks in. And I can hear it building already, the hum of activity in the background as the crew sets up, getting everything in place for when the rest of the team arrives.

Sure enough, about an hour later, the door swings open, and Jules, Scottie, and Sophie walk in, their usual energy filling the space as they talk amongst themselves. I don't move from the chair—just sit there, chilling like I've got all the time in the world. They don't even seem surprised. Maybe it's because I'm always early for these things these days.

Scottie nods in my direction, not missing a beat, his focus already shifting to the team around him. Jules glances over, her eyes lingering just a second longer than the rest. Sophie's doing her usual thing, checking her phone, keeping up with the latest entertainment news. The three of them are in their own world, and I let them be.

The crew begins to shift, getting into position as the shoot starts to roll out, and I settle in, blending into the routine, doing what's expected of me.

The set hums with movement, and I slip right into it. I've been here enough times to know exactly what to do, and the routine's almost second nature now. No nerves, no hesitation—just go through the motions like I've done a thousand times before.

The photographer calls out directions, but I don't need much. A glance here, a shift of my body there, and I'm falling into the poses effortlessly. It's all muscle memory now—the way I turn my back just enough to look confident, the tilt of my chin, how I catch the light perfectly when I turn my face. It's like breathing, like my body's trained to move for the camera, to look like the rock star they want me to be.

It's funny how easy it is now. In the beginning of Kill John, I had to learn how to pose, how to look "right" in front of the camera. But now? I give them everything they need without even thinking about it. My hands move instinctively—sometimes I slide them through my hair, other times I let them rest loosely at my sides, all the while keeping that laid-back, I'm-too-cool-for-this vibe that's always been my thing. They snap photos, adjust the lighting, and I just keep going, gliding through each frame like it's another song I've already mastered.

And then, just as the last shot is taken, I hear the voices echoing through the hallways. The rest of Kill John has finally arrived in their usual group dynamic, the loud, energetic buzz that fills the room the second they step in. It's like they've flipped the switch and the energy goes from calm professionalism to the chaotic rhythm of Kill John, a rhythm I'm all too familiar with. They know their roles, their positions, and they slip into it effortlessly.

I turn away for a moment, pretending to straighten my shirt, but it's just an excuse to step back and get some space. I don't want to put it all out there, not right now. This moment—this shoot—is just part of the machine. It's the job. The band is the family, and for all the chaos and messiness of it, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

But every now and then, when I step out of it, I wonder what it would be like if I didn't have to wear the mask anymore.

Sophie gives me another approving smile, and I quickly snap myself back into the moment, approaching my bandmates and the team with the same energy they have. The photoshoot is done. The day moves on, and I'm still here, playing my part.