Alex had learned a long time ago how to listen to music without being noticed.
The right earbud was pressed just enough under his hoodie to be invisible, the volume low but present, like a heartbeat. A raw guitar riff crackled through the cheap headphones, it was old, imperfect, alive. Not a studio track. A demo. One of his grandfather's.
The class smelled like whiteboard ink and boredom. A weak sunlight streamed through the dusty window, it fell on rows of half-asleep students pretending to be listening to the history lesson given by Ms.Bennett .
"Alexander Rose".
Alex didn't react immediately.
"Alexander Rose" she repeated, sharper this time.
A few heads turned. Someone in the back snickered.
Alex slowly pulled the earbud away, his green eyes lifting toward the front of the class. Calm, controlled, he'd mastered that too.
"Yes?"
Ms.Collins looked at Alex adjusting her glasses, studying him like a puzzle she already thought she solved.
"Would you like to explain why you think it's acceptable to listen to music during my lecture?"
A pause, her voice echoed throughout the room, leaving no place for whispers.
Alex shrugged "Didn't realise history needed silence"
Laughter rippled through the room.
Ms.Bennett frowned."Out. Hallway. Now".
As Alex stood up, whispers followed him like ghosts.
That Rose.
His Grandpa's Axl Rose.
Bet he can't sing for shit.
He stepped into the hallway, the door closing with a soft click. The music kept playing. He leaned his head against the cold locker, eyes closed.
The scream in the demo felt raw, unfiltred, untamed.
Axl Rose, before the world had shaped him into a legend.
Alex exhaled slowly."Must be nice", he muttered "having people love you before they even hear you".
The hallway smelled of old locker and dust, and somewhere a janitor hummed a tune he didn't recognize, it was quiet here, safer. For a moment he could pretend he wasn't that Rose, that he was just Alex, the kid who loved music more than anything else, that dreamed of stages, not history tests.
The garage was falling apart.
The paint peeled, one light flickered, and the concrete floor bore the scars of years of neglect. But to Alex, it was sacred ground. The smell of old wood and oil, mixed with faint cigarette smoke from the previous owners, was almost intoxicating. It smelled like possibility.
Jon was already there, tuning his bass with surgical precision. He was everything Alex wasn't : quiet, focused, terrifyingly smart. Music theory came to him the way breathing came to others. He had a memory like a vault, remembering every chord, every scale, every nuance.
Neil sat on an upside-down crate, spinning a drumstick between his fingers, a lazy grin on his face. He was chaos in human form, untamed and brilliant in equal measure. His laugh could drown out the world if he wanted it to.
"You're late," Neil said, his voice dripping with mock annoyance.
"I got exiled," Alex replied, tossing his bag down.
Jon didn't look up. "Again?"
Alex smirked. "Name privilege."
That made Jon pause. His fingers stilled on the strings.
They didn't talk about it often. The name. Rose. The expectations tied to it like chains. Alex had spent years hiding from them, pretending they didn't exist, pretending he didn't feel their weight with every note he played.
Neil stood up. "You ready or what?"
Alex grabbed his guitar. It was old. Scratched. Not famous. Not legendary.
His.
They didn't count in. They never did. They didn't need rules. Music was their language, their rebellion, their escape.
Jon started with a bassline, deep, controlled, precise. Neil followed, drums crashing in like a heartbeat finally allowed to run wild.
Alex closed his eyes.
Then he sang.
Not like Axl.
Not like anyone else.
His voice cracked at the edges, rough and emotional, carrying frustration, hunger, and something dangerously honest. The sound filled the garage, bouncing off the walls, growing louder, heavier, alive. Every note was a heartbeat, every chord a scream.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
Not school.Not expectations.Not the shadow of a legend.
Just the music.
The garage door rattled violently.
"HEY ! SHUT THIS DAMN MUSIC DOWN!" a voice yelled from outside.
Neil laughed mid-beat. Jon smirked.
Alex didn't stop singing. He let the sound carry, let it fill every crack and corner of the space. He felt alive, and for the first time in a long time, the name Rose didn't feel like a chain around his neck. It was a spark.
When the song finally collapsed into silence, all three of them stood there, breathing hard. Sweat dripped down Alex's face, but he didn't care.
Jon spoke first. "That was… different."
Neil nodded. "Yeah. That wasn't just noise."
Alex wiped his sweat from his forehead, heart still racing.
"I don't want to be him," he said quietly.
They both knew who he meant.
"I don't want to be a copy. Or a sequel. I want..." He stopped, searching for the words, for the feeling, for something bigger than himself.
Jon stepped closer. "Then don't follow his footsteps."
Neil grinned. "Make louder ones."
Alex looked at his guitar. At his hands. At the calluses forming. At the scars on the strings, the worn fretboard, the chipped paint. This was his story now.
For the first time, the weight on his chest didn't feel like a burden.
It felt like fuel.
He smiled. Slow, dangerous, certain.
"Alright," he said. "Let's make them remember our name."
This wasn't the beginning of a band.
It was the beginning of a legacy.