The hum of his amplifier vibrated through the worn wooden floorboards, a low, reassuring thrum against the frantic beat of Savv’s own heart. He sat hunched on a backless stool in the cramped backstage area, his fingers sticky with nerves as he meticulously tuned the G-string of his cherry-red Ibanez. Sweat slicked his palms, making the polished neck of the guitar feel alien, despite the countless hours he’d spent with it in the quiet solitude of his dorm room. This was different. This was the university’s open mic night, and the raucous energy of the unseen crowd beyond the heavy velvet curtain felt like a physical weight pressing down on him. He avoided eye contact with the few other performers milling about, preferring to study the intricate fretwork of his instrument. A girl with a ukulele hummed tunelessly beside him, her foot tapping an impatient rhythm. Savv wished for her easy confidence. His gaze darted to the chipped paint on the cinder block wall, then to the tangled snake-pit of cables snaking across the floor. Anything to avoid looking towards the stage entrance, towards the bright lights and the sea of faces he knew were waiting out there. He tightened the peg, the note rising fractionally higher, then loosened it again, seeking that perfect, resonant pitch. His breath hitched. He had practiced this piece a hundred times, a complex, finger-style instrumental he’d composed himself. It was subtle, intricate, full of quiet emotion. But ‘quiet’ felt like a death sentence tonight, swallowed by the boisterous atmosphere. He could hear a particularly loud laugh erupt from the audience, followed by a burst of applause for whatever act had just finished. The sound made his stomach clench. He just wanted to play his piece, disappear, and then re-emerge into the comfortable anonymity of the crowd. His pick slipped. He fumbled, catching it before it fell. His hands, usually so nimble and precise, felt clumsy, alien. A thin sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, tickling the skin above his eyebrow. He took a shallow breath, trying to slow his pulse, to focus on the familiar weight of the guitar against his lap. The guitar was his shield, his voice when his own failed. He just needed to hold on to that feeling, to let the music speak for him, even if his knees felt ready to buckle beneath him. He checked his tuning one last time, the low E string vibrating under his thumb. The chords were a familiar comfort, a melody he knew by heart. It was a piece about longing, about unspoken feelings, about the quiet beauty found in forgotten corners. He didn’t know if anyone out there would understand it, or even hear it over the din. He just knew he had to play it. His cue was coming, the stage manager’s voice a low murmur just around the corner. He closed his eyes for a split second, picturing the quiet solitude of his room, the only place he truly felt free. --- Jaai’s voice cut through the backstage chatter like a razor wire, sharp and confident. Savv flinched, his fingers freezing on the fretboard. He didn’t need to see Jaai to picture him: the vibrant orange hair, usually styled in a perfectly messy way, the easy smile that charmed everyone, the expensive bass guitar slung casually over his shoulder. Jaai always had a crowd. Even now, Savv could hear the admiring murmurs of students clustered around him, laughing at whatever witty observation he’d just delivered. “Honestly,” Jaai drawled, his voice carrying clearly over the thin partition separating the backstage from a small green room, “I think that guy’s amp was playing a better solo than he was. What was that, a dirge for a broken string?” A ripple of laughter followed, louder this time. Savv felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. Jaai wasn't just popular; he was a force. A talented bassist, true, but more than that, he possessed an effortless charisma that drew people in and made them hang on his every word. He was everything Savv wasn't: loud, confident, unafraid to take up space. Savv wished he could shrink, merge with the shadows backstage, become invisible. “Seriously, if you’re going to play like you’re afraid to wake up your grandmother, maybe stick to lullabies,” Jaai continued, his tone light but laced with a casual cruelty that made Savv’s skin prickle. “Where’s the *passion*? Where’s the *fire*? This isn’t a library, people.” More laughter. Savv’s jaw clenched. He knew Jaai wasn't talking about him, not yet. But the words were a direct hit, aimed squarely at the quiet, introspective style Savv cherished. Jaai always seemed to value raw energy, explosive performance, the kind of music that grabbed you by the throat. Savv’s music was the opposite: it coaxed, it whispered, it invited you in slowly. He knew it wasn't for everyone, but he thought it was valid. He risked a glance towards the green room door, half-expecting to see Jaai's striking figure emerge, but the doorway remained empty. Still, the echo of his voice lingered, a heavy weight in the air. Savv hated the way Jaai’s words chipped away at his already fragile confidence, making him question the very core of his musical identity. He hated the way Jaai made him feel small, insignificant. He adjusted his guitar strap, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands. He hated Jaai. He really did. --- “Next up, we have Savv!” The stage manager’s voice boomed, amplified and distorted. Savv swallowed hard, his mouth dry. The applause was polite, sparse compared to the roar that had greeted the last few acts. He walked towards the single spotlight, his cherry-red guitar a splash of defiant colour against his dark t-shirt. He kept his head down, focusing on the scuffed stage floor, trying to ignore the shifting shadows of the audience. He found his mark, plugged in his cable, and stepped up to the microphone, adjusting it lower. The feedback squealed for a moment, making him wince. He mumbled a quick, almost inaudible thank you, then took a deep breath. His fingers, miraculously, found their rhythm, falling into the intricate arpeggios of his piece. The melody began, a delicate, melancholic cascade of notes that filled the hall. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the music, letting the sound wash over him. He focused on the subtle vibrato, the precise bends, the gentle swell of volume in the chorus. He poured himself into each note, each phrase, believing that the emotion, if not the volume, would carry across the space. The opening bars were a quiet triumph, a moment of fragile peace. He felt the music begin to bloom, allowing a tentative ease to settle into his shoulders. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe they would listen. Then, a voice. Clear, mocking, cutting through the delicate tapestry of his music like a thrown stone. “Still playing it safe, Savv? I thought this was an *open mic*, not a lullaby session!” The words were unmistakably Jaai’s. They came from somewhere in the middle of the audience, loud enough to make the polite murmurs of the crowd falter, then turn into a ripple of embarrassed laughter. Savv’s fingers faltered too, a dissonant note ringing out before he could recover. His cheeks burned, a sudden, scorching heat that spread across his face, down his neck, and into his chest. He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh stage lights. He couldn't see Jaai, not clearly, but he could feel the weight of his gaze, the sting of his contempt. The laughter grew louder, not malicious, but enough to shatter the fragile spell he had tried to weave. His hands felt like lead. The melody died in his throat, replaced by a bitter, metallic taste. He wanted to run, to disappear, to dissolve into the very air around him. The guitar felt heavy, a burden rather than a shield, exposing him rather than protecting him. --- The final note of his embarrassed retreat was a clumsy, half-plucked string, the sound dying quickly in the sudden silence. He yanked the cable from his guitar, the plastic jack scraping loudly against the metal input. He didn’t bother to thank anyone, didn’t look at the stage manager who stood frozen by the wing. His feet moved on their own, a desperate, scrambling shuffle across the stage, away from the mocking echoes of laughter and the stifling heat in his cheeks. The curtain rustled as he pushed through it, a dark velvet embrace that offered no comfort. He stumbled backstage, almost colliding with the ukulele girl, who averted her eyes, pretending to adjust her capo. The air felt thick, heavy with the phantom weight of Jaai's words, the humiliation a bitter taste that coated his tongue. He gripped his guitar neck so hard his knuckles turned white, wishing he could smash it, wishing he could smash something. He didn't know where he was going. Just away. Away from the stage, away from the memory of the scattered applause and the knowing snickers. His vision blurred, a hot sting behind his eyes that he refused to let fall. He wasn't going to cry. Not here. Not for *him*. He heard the next act being announced, the crowd’s noise beginning to pick up again, already forgetting his brief, disastrous appearance. He was just another blip, easily erased. He leaned against a cold concrete wall, gulping down air, trying to steady the frantic hammering of his heart. The guitar, still clutched in his hand, felt like a lead weight, betraying him with its silence. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, his gaze falling, by some unfortunate magnetism, towards the stage entrance. And there, standing casually by the side of the stage, leaning against a speaker cabinet, was Jaai. His orange hair seemed to glow even in the dim backstage light. He wasn't smiling. His face was unreadable, his expression stripped of its usual charming confidence, replaced by something still and intense. His eyes, usually so dismissive, were locked onto Savv’s. Jaai’s gaze lingered, not with triumph, but with an unsettling, unreadable intensity fixed on the small, almost imperceptible mole beneath Savv’s left eye.

Chapter 1: Strings of Disdain