Benny Everhart was never supposed to go solo.
At 35, she's a seasoned musician with a voice that once defined a generation-alongside the four childhood friends she grew up with in Maine. United by their passion for music, they were discovered in 201...
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3rd Person's POV
The stage lights blazed like fire, casting sharp beams through clouds of smoke as the crowd in Manhattan's Hammerstein Ballroom thundered with energy. Phones lit up the pit, fans shouting every lyric as if it were tattooed on their tongues. Northside Bound was at the height of their career—platinum records, sold-out shows, endorsements, festival headlines.
But even at the top, things were splintering.
Center stage, Benny Everhart gripped her mic, vocals tearing through the chorus like a blade. Her voice was still sharp, still dangerous, but her eyes flicked left more than once. Watching. Bracing.
To her right, Fallon Larkspear was anything but steady. Her guitar hung low, fingers slightly off-tempo, face half-shadowed by dark bangs stuck to her forehead. The sweat on her brow wasn't just from the heat. Her pupils were blown wide. She looked like a ghost mid-spotlight—there, but not really.
And the fans saw it.
Some exchanged confused looks. Some paused their recording. Fallon missed a cue on the second verse—a riff she'd written herself—and tried to play it off with a stumble into feedback. But Benny heard it. So did Damon. So did Amelia. All three kept going, locked in like professionals, but the tension between them was obvious to anyone paying attention.
The final song should've brought the house down. Instead, it ended with a fizzle of distorted reverb as Fallon dropped her guitar—no dramatic finish, no wave to the crowd, no gratitude. Just a dull clang and a slow, unsteady walk offstage.
There was no bow.
There was no encore.
There was just discomfort thickening in the air like smoke that wouldn't clear.
Backstage, the cheers were muffled behind concrete walls and black curtains. The moment the dressing room door slammed, the silence shattered.
"What the fuck was that?" Amelia snapped, slamming her bass case to the floor. "You were high again, Fallon. Don't even try to deny it."
Fallon didn't. She threw herself into the nearest chair, eyes glazed, elbow on the armrest, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline—or something else.
"It was one show," she muttered, slurring just slightly. "Don't act like I ruined the world."
"One show?" Damon stepped forward, towering. "You've been spiraling for a year. Tonight wasn't the first fuck-up. It's just the first one the fans noticed."
