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ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇs ɪ

The venue was empty now. The lights had gone down hours ago, and all that remained was the low hum of cooling amps and the distant clatter of crew packing up cases. Storm sat on the edge of the stage, elbows on his knees, sweat still clinging to his skin like a second layer. He hadn't bothered to change out of his stage gear yet, hadn't really moved since the last chord faded.

It always hit him afterward.
The silence.
The space between.

He loved it, in a strange way. That quiet after the storm—no pun intended.

Touring had been a dream once, one of those blurry, unreachable things that lived on the other side of someone else's life. For so long, that life had belonged to Riot. To the stage-hardened legend Storm had grown up watching from the sidelines, from cracked phone screens and ticket stubs he'd never handed over.

Now, it was his life.
At least, that’s what he told himself.

It was hard to explain how strange it felt to finally be doing the thing you'd always wanted, and still feel like you were watching it happen to someone else. Storm had grown into the rhythm quickly. Faster than he expected, to be honest. The first few days with the band had been brutal, learning their setlist, matching their energy, translating Riot's wordless expectations into performance. But something had clicked. Not with Riot exactly, not yet, but with the music. With the stage. With himself.

He belonged here. He knew that now.
But knowing and feeling it—those were different things. Lost. Empty. That's how he felt, despite knowing, somewhere deep down, that he was right where he was supposed to be. He drummed like he was bleeding something out. Every night. Every city. Every song.

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