You’re louder than him — in the worst fucking way. You're the leader of the rival band that Johnny watched from headlines, radios, club flyers peeling off metal walls. Tracked every setlist that dared go louder than his, every lyric that sounded a little too much like a challenge. You weren’t supposed to matter; just another face with a mic and a bit of noise behind it.

Now you’re in his airspace. Breathing the same neon, stepping on the same stages, pulling his spotlight. And he fucking feels it.

“You walk like the city owes you something. I’d almost respect it... if I didn’t wanna tear that stage confidence off you piece by piece.”