Chapter Text
Frank had promised himself he wouldn’t screw this one up.
He’d said it out loud that morning, staring into the cracked mirror of a gas station bathroom as he scrubbed eyeliner from under his eyes with the edge of a paper towel. Fresh start. New band. Don’t let your mouth ruin it.
Now he was gripping the wheel of his beat-up Civic, holding his breath, nausea creeping up his throat as he takes the final turn.
The building didn’t help the nausea.
The address led him to a narrow side street that didn’t look like it belonged in the city at all—just warehouses hunched shoulder to shoulder like they were keeping secrets. The one he wanted was the ugliest of the bunch: peeling gray paint, a heavy steel door, no sign except for a name scrawled in black paint above it: THE HOLLOW.
Frank killed the engine and sat there a second, guitar case in the back seat, phone buzzing with a notification he didn’t check. The Hollow. Not “The Hollow Studio,” not even a number. Just that.
He blew out a breath, grabbed his jacket, and climbed out. The air smelled faintly like rain even though the sky was clear.
Up close, the door didn’t look industrial so much as… wrong. The steel wasn’t just rusted; it was dented in odd places, like something had pressed hard from the inside. Frank reached for the handle. It was cold enough to make his fingers flinch.
He told himself buildings just got like that. Places like this were never pretty.
The door groaned as it opened, heavier than it should have been. Inside was a narrow hallway lined with scuffed black paint and band stickers so old they’d started to curl away from the walls. It smelled faintly like bleach and something else—maybe mildew. Or maybe something sweet, almost like fruit left too long in a drawer.
Frank shifted his guitar case on his shoulder and followed the distant sound of a bassline through another door, cracked open just enough to leak a slice of yellow light.
He pushed it wider.
The rehearsal room was bigger than he expected, with thick rugs over concrete and amps stacked along the walls like black bricks. Heavy curtains blocked what might have been windows, and the light from the ceiling buzzed faintly, like it was struggling to stay awake.
Two guys were already there. One crouched by a pedalboard, dark hair frizzed out like a halo, muttering as he adjusted a cable. The other was on the couch, hunched over his phone.
The one on the floor glanced up first and grinned. “You Frank?”
“Yeah.” He set his case down and tried not to look as awkward as he felt.
The guy stood, brushing his jeans. “Ray.” He had an easy smile, the kind that made people like him instantly, though it looked a little worn around the edges. He gestured toward the couch. “That’s Mikey.”
The guy on the couch raised a hand without looking up. Pale fingers, long and bony. He mumbled something that might have been hey and went back to clicking the buttons on the little device.
Frank nodded, taking in the room again. It was warm, but every now and then a draft slid across the floor like a ghost of air-conditioning. He tried to ignore the way the heavy curtains didn’t quite move when the draft hit them.
“Good to finally have you here,” Ray said, pulling a pick from his pocket and twirling it between his fingers. “Been a minute since we had a full lineup.”
Frank caught the tone—casual, but with something under it. “Yeah? What happened to the last guy?”
Ray hesitated for just a breath. “Didn’t work out.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Ray’s smile didn’t change, but something in his eyes did. Quick, like a shutter closing.
Before Frank could push, Mikey spoke without looking up. “Gerard’s on his way.”
The name landed like a stone in water. The sound of the buzzing light seemed louder for a second.
Frank glanced between them. “Gerard.”
“Our singer,” Ray said quickly. “Frontman. He’s… you’ll see.”
“What, he’s a hardass?”
Ray laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. “Nah. Just… Gerard.”
Frank frowned. He hated when people did that—turned a name into a warning without saying why.
He sat on the edge of the couch, tugging at the zipper of his jacket, pretending not to notice the faint hum in the walls. Not the lights. Not the amps. Something lower, like a vibration too deep to hear properly. He told himself it was nothing.
Then the door opened.
Frank expected a creak or a slam, something to break the low hum in the room, but the sound was soft. Too soft for a door that heavy.
He looked up—and for a second, he thought the light dimmed.
The guy who walked in wasn’t what Frank expected. He wasn’t tall, not really, but he carried himself like someone who’d never been told no. Black coat brushing his knees, boots soundless on the rug. His hair was a mess of dark waves falling into his face, sharp cheekbones catching the light like broken glass.
And his eyes—Christ. They weren’t any color Frank could name in that moment. Dark, sure, but there was something behind them, something that made him feel like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
This had to be Gerard.
The air felt different now. Not tense, exactly—more like… aware. Like the room had been half-asleep before and now it was watching.
Gerard didn’t look at Ray. Didn’t look at Mikey, who still hadn’t put down his phhone. His gaze locked on Frank like he’d known him forever, like Frank was late for something he hadn’t agreed to.
“So,” Gerard said. His voice was quiet, almost soft, but it cut clean through the buzz of the lights. “You’re the new one.”
Frank hated how his throat tightened. New one. Not new guy, not new guitarist. New one, like there’d been others, like this was some kind of pattern.
“Yeah,” Frank said, standing up. He held Gerard’s stare even though every part of him wanted to look away. “Frank.”
Gerard stepped closer, slow, like he had all the time in the world. “Frank,” he repeated, tasting it like it was something he wasn’t sure he wanted to swallow.
“You’re late,” he added.
Frank blinked. “You came after me though—”
“That doesn't matter. You weren't here when it was your time to be here.”
Ray jumped in too fast, like he’d been waiting for this. “Traffic was hell, Gee. You know how it is.”
Gerard didn’t break eye contact. “Fine. Just allow him to be late then..”
Frank felt something prick at the back of his neck. It wasn’t anger—not yet—but he could feel the heat of it waiting. Don’t start shit, he told himself. Not today.
Gerard finally looked away, just a flick, like Frank had passed some silent test. He crossed the room and set a battered leather notebook on the amp nearest the wall.
“Let’s play,” he said. “See what you can do.”
Frank unpacked his guitar with fingers that felt stiffer than they should. He hated feeling watched, but that was the thing—Gerard wasn’t even looking at him anymore. He was flipping through his notebook like nothing else mattered. Still, Frank felt it, like static on his skin.
Ray launched into a riff, bright and tight, his hair swinging as he nodded in time. Mikey finally put his phone down and slipped his bass over his shoulder. No one spoke.
Frank plugged in, hit a few chords just to feel the room. The sound was good—thick and clean—but there was something strange about the way it hung in the air. Like it didn’t quite die when it should, like it stayed for a second too long before vanishing.
He told himself he was imagining it.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Gerard said.
Frank wanted to snap I’ve been ready, but he didn’t. He waited for Ray to count them in, and then they were moving—tight, heavy rhythm under a melody that crawled like smoke.
It felt good to play again. Better than good. Frank let himself sink into it, fingers remembering the shape of the sound, body moving with it like muscle memory. For a few minutes, it was just music.
Then Gerard started singing.
Frank had heard demos, sure, but this—this was different. His voice didn’t just hit notes; it filled space, slid under your skin like something warm and sharp at the same time. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t polished, but Christ, it meant something, like it was bleeding through the mic.
Frank almost missed his cue staring at him.
They finished the song, and the last note rang out too long—again, that echo that wasn’t an wasn't an echo—and then it was quiet.
Gerard looked at him. Not at his hands, not at his guitar—at him.
“You play like you're angry,” he said.
Frank blinked. “What?”
“Your hands,” Gerard said, tilting his head like he was studying an insect. “Tight. Like you’re holding back a punch.”
Frank opened his mouth, then shut it.
Gerard smiled—small, sharp, like a secret. “That’s good.”
Ray clapped his hands together, breaking whatever that was. “Sounded great, man. Seriously.”
Mikey just nodded. His eyes flicked to Gerard, then away fast.
Frank slung his guitar behind him and reached for the water bottle he’d brought. His throat felt dry, like he’d swallowed dust.
Ray was still talking—something about the next track, how they’d tweak the bridge—but Frank barely heard him. His eyes kept sliding back to Gerard, who was writing something in that notebook without looking down, like his hand already knew the words.
There was something about the way his lips moved when he read them back, silent but deliberate.
Frank looked away, shoving the cap back on his bottle too hard.
They ran the song again. And again. Each time, Frank felt himself loosening, forgetting to be nervous, letting the rhythm carry him. It should have been good—was good—but every so often, that hum came back. Low, like the sound of a train on tracks miles away. No one else seemed to hear it.
On the third run, something odd happened.
Mid-chorus, one of Frank’s strings snapped with a sharp twang. It whipped against his fingers, slicing a thin red line across his knuckle.
“Shit.” Frank killed the volume and crouched to grab his case.
Ray winced. “Bad break?”
“Just the string.” Frank sucked the blood off his finger. Metallic, bitter. “Got spares.”
When he glanced up, Gerard was watching him.
Not the way most people watch someone bleed—with concern or curiosity. No, Gerard’s gaze was different. Focused. Almost… interested.
Frank looked away fast. His throat felt tight.
He changed the string in silence, aware of Gerard writing something in the notebook again. The scratching of the pen sounded louder than the amp hum.
Ray launched into small talk—tour schedules, potential gigs—but Frank barely processed it. Every time he looked up, Gerard wasn’t looking at him anymore. But Frank felt it, like heat on the back of his neck.
When they finally called a break, Ray and Mikey stepped outside to smoke. Frank stayed, winding the spare strings back into his case.
Gerard didn’t leave.
He closed his notebook and walked over, boots silent on the rug.
Frank felt him before he saw him.
“You’re good,” Gerard said softly.
Frank looked up. Gerard was closer than he’d thought—too close. His coat brushed Frank’s knee where he sat on the floor.
“Thanks,” Frank muttered, shoving the last string into the compartment.
Gerard crouched, black hair falling like a curtain as he tilted his head. “You’re different from him.”
Frank froze. “Who?”
“The last one.” Gerard’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t really a smile. “He didn’t last.”
Frank swallowed. “Why not?”
Gerard’s eyes flicked to the cut on Frank’s finger. “He wasn’t… the right fit.”
Frank’s skin prickled.
Before he could ask more, Gerard stood in one smooth motion and crossed the room, picking up his notebook like the conversation had never happened, mumbling something about the break and checking on Mikey, leaving Frank alone in the oddly dim practice room.