Lorelei woke to her stray, black locks obscuring her vision and bright light creeping between window shades.
Dusty slats cradled the afternoon sun, the remnants of last night laying tangled in her mind, heavy and insistent. So she lay unmoving, staring up at the cracked ceiling until reality took shape around her—a soft groan of pipes in the walls. A thin guitar riff coming from Lucas's room.
It'd been the first time in a while that she'd heard him play.
With effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, the faded carpet rough against her bare feet. Her phone blinked an angry 1:07 from the cluttered desk across the room. She dragged herself over to it, bumping against stacks of photography books and equipment, some used more often as furniture than for art these days.
Outside her room, she found the living room mostly as they'd left it—Lucas's posters drooping from the walls, a maze of cables and recording equipment snaking over every surface. The coffee table struggled under the weight of empty takeout containers and a forgotten trash bag. She wondered briefly when the last time they saw it clear was. A beat-up couch doubled as Lucas's makeshift studio corner and bed when he didn't make it to his own. He insisted it was perfect for his late-night sessions, but she'd lost count of the times she'd found him slumped over in it, asleep with a guitar still strapped to his chest.
He hadn't been particularly fond of Lorelei attending Willow's show. When she told him, he'd tried to hide the face he made, but she knew him better than that. She always noticed how he looked at his phone screen, studying Instagram reels and TikTok videos of Willow during their rise to fame. He watched the videos just long enough for Lorelei to turn and see his brow slightly furrowed, eyes narrow, as though he were in pain. But she didn't have to watch his subtle expressions to know he was hurting. It wasn't about Willow as much as it was about a life in music, an opportunity he'd wanted more than anything. But he'd given up all of it to keep their parents' dream alive instead—to keep themselves afloat when the waters rose too high. So she'd broken the news to him gently that night—that Lacey got two tickets to Willow's sold-out, final show of their tour—and said she wouldn't go if he didn't want her to. But Lucas was never one to admit his feelings. So he'd smiled and assured her he saw no reason why she shouldn't go, sending her out the door with a small amount of cash to enjoy her evening.
But the broken bottles littering the floor when she came in this morning told a different story.
Now, Lucas's gentle guitar came from the other side of his door, and the living room floor was spotless, as if none of it had ever happened at all. She made her way through to the kitchen, part of the same small room, and yanked open the fridge. An armada of beer bottles, some full, some very much not, was the first thing to greet her. She dug past them to unearth a carton of eggs and a block of cheese, depositing both on the counter as she hunted for bread. The quiet persistence of her headache drowned out everything but thoughts of the guy back in the alley—his hollow eyes, the sharp angles of his face, how he seemed to fold into himself even as they carried him away.
Could it have truly been him, Echo, Willow's vocalist? People at the concert had spoken of so many things that Lorelei's head spun trying to remember all of their words, attempting to recall some clue. But the one thing all the gossipers had in common was trying to justify why Echo and the band chose to mask themselves.
The eggs slipped from her grip, one cracking open and leaking across the counter. She wiped up the mess, forcing herself to concentrate on breakfast. She had to stop seeing him so vividly, the thought settling like a stone in her stomach.
"I think it's kind of obvious he's depressed."
One of the girls in the crowd had said it. And the guy in the alley, he was crying. But he was beaten up, as if he'd gotten in a fight, and who would get in a fight with Echo? And why? And who was he apologizing to?
"You're up early."
Lucas's voice broke through. Lorelei jumped, dropping the cheese.
"Late, actually," she mumbled, leaning down to pick up the cheese. She turned her back to him and focused on cutting uneven slices. Her movements were jerky, distracted, and she could feel him watching.
"So," Lucas said, drawing out the word like a guitar string. "I waited up for you for a while. Why'd you get back so late?"
Lorelei felt a sharp twist in her chest. She grabbed a frying pan and set it on the stove with a clang. "It was crowded," she said finally. "And wet. And—" she struggled to find the right words, her own head too full of everything she wasn't saying. "Just... took a while to get out, that's all. Do you want anything?"
Lucas leaned against the doorway, his hair a tangled mess, looking more rested than he should for someone who'd left the club past 1 AM. "Nah, I'm good." Lucas shifted his weight. There was something almost cautious in his voice now, like he was waiting for her to slip up and reveal whatever she was hiding. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you waited at their bus like the crazies."
The toaster spat up the bread, and one slice landed with a dull thud on the floor. Lorelei crouched to pick it up, her face turned away. "Ah, well, you know Lacey," she said.
He gave a low chuckle, pushing off from the wall. "Yeah, I do. Any backstage passes, then? Meet the band?" He sounded casual, but Lorelei heard the edge beneath it. He was trying to seem uninterested, just making conversation, but she knew better.
She flipped the egg, a bit harder than necessary. The yolk broke and spilled out into the pan. She frowned. "No, of course not." She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to look at him. His face was lined with the kind of exhaustion that settled deeper than sleep could fix. She glanced at the coffee table, where the remote lay. The memory of him passed out on the couch and the news headline from early that morning returned to her mind.
"You must be tired," she said finally, her voice softer. "Long night at the club?"
He pushed off the doorway and walked toward her, closing the distance she wanted to keep. "Longer than you think," he said. He tossed down an orange paper on the countertop.
"What's this?"
Her question was met with silence, so her eyes met his, wide and searching. He watched her with an unflinching gaze. She stared back down at the paper, the sizzling egg in the pan a gentle reminder of her task. But she picked up the paper, unfolding it. It was a letter—a long letter—and within spoke of things Lorelei didn't quite understand—legal jargon that provided ultimatums and time frames and words that were long and formal. But the one thing she could understand from it: they were about to lose what they'd been fighting so hard to keep—Club Seven.
She set the letter down and continued cooking, trying to find her voice. She plated her food in silence. When she finally spoke, it was a whisper against the weight of their reality.
"We'll figure something out."
"With what, Lor?" His laugh was humorless, bitter. "A miracle?"
Her eyes followed his hands as he arranged a stack of bills, each another layer to the chaos she wished she could escape. They fanned out across the coffee table, an uneven, angry collection of urgent demands. Lorelei stared at them, willing them to disappear.
"We've got nothing left in reserve," he said, voice tight with exhaustion. "Not for payroll, not even for rent. Nothing."
His words hung between them, a truth she couldn't ignore. She chewed her lip, running through possibilities in her mind.
"Maybe," she started, the words hesitant, "maybe we should just take out a loan, try to buy the building."
The suggestion was senseless and desperate, she knew even as she spoke it. She watched the change in Lucas's face, a quick, sharp shift from disbelief to anger.
"In the middle of downtown Atlanta? You can't be serious." His voice rose, and she flinched at its force. "Are you that ignorant of reality? That oblivious?" He grabbed a stack of overdue notices and threw them on the table, the sharp sound of paper meeting wood.
She turned her face away, but his words stuck, needles burrowing under her skin. His frustration was hot and palpable, filling the room until Lorelei could hardly breathe. She let her breakfast grow cold and fidgeted with a loose thread on the couch cushion, pulling at it until it unraveled. The movement was compulsive, an attempt to find order in the unraveling.
"You think the world is like a damn movie," Lucas said. "But it's not, and we can't just shoot a different ending."
"I know that," Lorelei snapped, more to herself than to him.
Lucas scoffed, and the sound cut her deeper than she'd like to admit. "Do you?" he said. "We're drowning, Lor. And you're making it worse with your fantasies."
She drew back. "What fantasies?"
"Carrying that camera around, viewing your entire life through a lens, as if everything else around you doesn't exist."
"I work hard," she said, louder than she intended. Her fingers tightened around the loose thread until it cut into her skin. "You don't know how much I do."
"I know exactly how much you do," Lucas said. His eyes were on her, bright with something fierce, something close to accusation. "You think promoting the club with videos alone will save us?" He ran his hands through his hair, a gesture of frustration so familiar it felt like a script he'd lived a hundred times before. "You're always talking about what you want," he continued. "About your dreams, like they matter more than keeping this place afloat."
She shook her head, the movement sharp and quick. "That's not true. I'm trying to help. Just because it's not the way you wanted—"
"You think I wanted this?" he interrupted, his voice raw. "I didn't. I never did. But I'm not the one playing pretend while everything crumbles. I'm the one giving up everything to pick up the pieces like always."
His words struck with familiar precision, and she felt them lodge deep inside.
"I'm not playing pretend," Lorelei said, a tremor in her voice. "You just act like you're the only one who cares about Mom and Dad's dream because you gave up on your own!"
Lorelei regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. She watched the enormity of it all hit between them like the strike of a match. She felt the flame catch, spreading through her, too big to contain. She met his gaze, defiant, but his eyes were locked on the letter. His fingers were tight around its edges, knuckles white.
"You know what?" Lucas said, his voice breaking just enough to show the emotion stuffed underneath. "Forget it." He pulled back, the sudden absence of his anger leaving a hollow space. "I'll figure something out," he said, and there was a finality to his tone that pushed her further away.
The anger in her chest collapsed, leaving only its brittle remains. She wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the distance growing wider with every second. But the words stuck in her throat, silent, unfinished.
"Lucas, wait," she tried, but he was already rising from the couch.
He gathered some of the papers, leaving the eviction notice where it lay. "I've got things to do before we open tonight," he said, already halfway to the door. But then he paused, just long enough for Lorelei to think he might say something else, something that didn't cut as deep. But he didn't.
The door closed with a decisive click, and Lorelei sat in the silence that followed. The weight of Lucas's words pinned her to the too-soft couch, an oppressive force she couldn't escape. Silence pressed in from all sides until the entire room felt like a monument to everything she was about to lose.
The apartment felt too small, the walls closing in, and she thought she might scream to fill the empty space. All she could see was everything Lucas left behind—bills, demands, evidence of how deep they were in. The sight of it fueled the panic, each piece a reminder of how powerless she was to fix any of it.
In her mind, she saw the world Lucas painted with his words: the club dark and silent, its doors locked for good. Their apartment empty and cold, echoes of failure in every room. Her camera forgotten, his guitar and his music equipment sitting in some pawn shop, their dreams as lost as their parents'.
The sense of loss deepened, her thoughts spiraling with worst-case scenarios, a frantic, chaotic whirl she couldn't stop. But something else called to her in that moment, another uncertainty wrapped in the events of last night.
She glanced at her camera bag in the corner of the room, the memory of the alley sharp and bright. The mask was still hidden there, looming as large as the rest of her fears. But she needed to feel grounded, in control of something when everything else was crumbling around her. So she left her cold food on the cluttered coffee table and hurried to her bag, where the black and blue monarch mask was hiding. She hoisted the strap over her shoulder and grabbed her keys from the dish on the counter, slamming the apartment door behind her.