Chapter 2: The Golden Mask (Leo POV)

I wake to six missed calls from Noah and a text from Dr. Mercer that makes my stomach drop:

Need to talk—heart rate spiking in your last readings. Call my office.

Delete.

Three... two... one... Stand slowly. The room holds steady. Good sign.

My phone vibrates again. Noah.

"Dude, where are you? We've got rehearsal in fifteen."

"I'm coming," I mumble, voice still thick with sleep. "Had a late night."

"With who this time?"

"Just me and my guitar." I grab a clean-enough t-shirt from the floor. "And my adoring fans."

Noah snorts. "Yeah, well, your adoring fans aren't gonna help us win Battle of the Bands. Get your ass over here."

I hang up and press two fingers to my wrist—an old habit. The pulse thrums beneath my skin: too fast, too irregular. The monitoring band Dr. Mercer insisted I wear itches against my skin. I slide it off and shove it into my desk drawer.

One problem at a time. Right now, that problem is making it to rehearsal.

"Finally!" Riley tosses a drumstick my way as I push through the door of our practice space—a converted storage room in the music building basement. "The prodigal son returns."

"Miss me?" I flash my best smile, sliding my guitar case off my shoulder.

"Your humility? Always." Noah hands me a coffee, eyes narrowing as he takes in my appearance. "You look like shit."

"Stayed up working on the bridge for 'Carnival Lights,'" I lie, unzipping my case. "Almost got it perfect."

Zack snorts from behind his keyboard. "Almost perfect isn't going to cut it with Blackwave Records in the audience. They're looking for the whole package."

"Which is exactly what they'll get." I pull out my guitar, fingers dancing over the strings in a quick warm-up run. "We've got three weeks to nail this. We will nail this."

My confidence flows over them. Riley nods, reassured. Zack adjusts his beanie, mollified. Noah still watches me, searching for cracks.

"Let's take it from the top," I say before he can ask questions. "Zack, I want that intro cleaner. Riley, keep the tempo steady on the bridge—you're rushing it."

We launch into the first song. The familiar chords ease the tightness in my chest. This is where I belong, where everything makes sense. The Leo Martinez that Crescendo University knows and loves—charismatic frontman, campus golden boy—exists within these four walls, within these songs.

The rest—the dizzy spells, the medication I should be taking, the warnings from Dr. Mercer—that's for some other Leo to worry about.

The Amp is buzzing by the time we arrive for sound check.

"This is gonna be epic," Riley says, eyes bright as he surveys the growing crowd.

I nod, scanning the faces. The usual suspects—music students, groupies, girls whose names I should remember but don't. And then—

"Weird," Noah says, following my gaze. "Volleyball team doesn't usually grace us with their presence."

Jade Moreno has claimed a table near the back, her signature intensity making the crowded venue part around her. Beside her sits a quieter figure, dark hair tucked behind her ears, eyes trained on the stage.

"Who's that with Jade?" I ask, attempting nonchalance.

"Ava Lin. Libero on the volleyball team. Supposed to be their secret weapon or something." Noah raises an eyebrow. "Why? You interested?"

"Just taking inventory of our audience," I reply, turning away. "Let's get set up."

As I unzip my guitar case, something flutters to the floor. Folded pages tucked into the guitar strap pocket—neat handwriting I don't recognize.

'Lights that blind but never reveal'

'Voices that drown but never speak'

'We're all just echoes of something real'

'Searching for strength when we're weak'

"What's that?" Zack asks, peering over my shoulder.

"Lyrics. Not mine." I scan the page, something in my chest tightening. "Someone slipped them into my case."

"Secret admirer?" Riley waggles his eyebrows.

"More like a desperate wannabe." I fold the pages, tucking them into my back pocket. "Let's focus, yeah? We've got a show to put on."

As we wrap up, I scan the crowd again. Jade has disappeared, but Ava remains, eyes locked on me with an intensity that's almost unnerving. There's something in her gaze—not the usual admiration or want, but something more complicated. Recognition, maybe.

"Anyone write music?" I ask into the mic, riding the high of a perfect set. "We're always looking for fresh material."

Movement catches my eye. Ava Lin is approaching the stage, clutching a notebook to her chest like armor.

She stops at the edge of the stage, looking up at me. "You said you were looking for material?" Her voice is soft but clear. "I write lyrics."

The folded pages in my pocket suddenly feel heavier. I stare at her, pieces clicking into place. The quiet girl with the hidden fire. The athlete with a secret passion.

"You're the one who put pages in my guitar case?"

She nods, eyes never leaving mine. "I thought you might connect with them. Your songs are technically brilliant, but they're... missing something."

The crowd oohs, sensing drama. Noah steps closer, curious. Riley and Zack exchange glances.

"Missing something?" I repeat, aware of the audience watching, waiting for my response.

"Heart," she says simply. "They're missing heart."

Something hot and ugly flares in my chest—embarrassment, maybe, or pride. Who is this girl to critique my music? To suggest I lack heart when music is the only thing that keeps my actual heart beating?

"Heart," I echo, a smile spreading across my face that doesn't reach my eyes. I take the notebook she's offering. "Let's see what volleyball players know about music, shall we?"

I flip through the pages, aware of the crowd leaning in, of Noah's warning look, of the hope slowly draining from Ava's face.

"'Echoes bounce off empty walls,'" I read aloud, my voice taking on a mocking tone. "'Praise that never quite reaches my ears.'" I look up, catching the eyes of our audience. "Wow. Deep stuff."

Someone in the crowd snickers. I can feel the momentum building, the energy shifting. This is what I'm good at—working a room, playing to the crowd.

"'How many times can you vanish before you forget how it feels to be seen?'" I continue, my voice dripping with fake sentiment. I close the notebook with a snap. "Here's some free advice, Ava Lin. Stick to spikes, not songs."

The crowd erupts in laughter and applause. I toss the notebook back to her, watching as she catches it reflexively—athlete's instincts. For a moment, our eyes lock. The hurt in hers is raw.

"You might be good at diving for balls," I add, "but maybe leave the soul-baring to people who actually understand it."

More laughter. More applause. I'm winning this exchange, crushing it, really. So why does it feel like losing?

Ava backs away, clutching her notebook. Her face hardens into something cold and distant. Without a word, she turns and walks away, shoulders straight, head high.

The crowd's attention shifts as the next band starts setting up. Noah bumps my shoulder.

"Dude. That was harsh."

"It's called honesty," I reply, but something in my chest twists uncomfortably. The pages in my back pocket feel like they're burning through the fabric. "She'll get over it."

As I pack up my guitar, the venue suddenly feels too loud, too crowded. The triumph of our perfect set fades, replaced by an odd hollowness. The monitoring band in my desk drawer seems miles away, but I can feel my heart racing, skipping beats it shouldn't skip.

Outside, the night air hits my face. I lean against the brick wall, breathing deep. From around the corner, I hear a soft sound—someone crying, maybe, or just breathing hard.

I peer around the edge. Ava Lin stands alone, back against the wall, eyes closed, notebook clutched to her chest. She's not crying, just... gathering herself. Piece by piece, I watch her put her armor back on.

Something in my chest stutters, and for once, it's not my faulty heart.