The crowd was loud — not the kind of loud that hums in your ears, but the kind that pounds in your chest, makes your lungs feel too small. Rhea Langley stood just behind the curtain of Club Mercury's rickety stage, clutching her old guitar like a lifeline. She hadn't planned to be here tonight. Hell, she hadn't even been on the lineup. But someone dropped out, and Micah — her friend and sometimes manager — had shoved her forward with a half-smile and a whispered, "This is it, Rhea. Don't blink."
She didn't.
The moment the spotlight hit her, something shifted. The conversations in the room quieted, not out of politeness but in a slow, organic hush — the kind reserved for those whose presence is impossible to ignore. Her first chord rang out like a bell in a cathedral, clear and aching. And then she sang.
Her voice wasn't classically beautiful — it was raw, textured like gravel rolled in honey. It told stories of pain and defiance, of nights spent sleeping on couches, of parents who didn't understand her hunger, of love that burned too fast and left nothing but ash.
Phones came out. Clips were posted. Within hours, her name trended. By morning, the video had cracked a million views. By evening, she was on the homepage of every major music blog from Brooklyn to Berlin. She wasn't just good — she was real. And the internet craved something real.
Within days, labels called. Agents. Influencers. Former classmates she hadn't spoken to in years. Her inbox swelled with people who suddenly "always believed in her." And Rhea, caught in the whirlwind, tried to keep her feet on the ground.
But gravity is no match for fame.
Her apartment became too small. Her schedule too packed. The quiet life she used to live — ramen noodles, borrowed hoodies, spontaneous jam sessions in Micah's garage — was replaced by meetings, fittings, and interviews full of canned smiles. People talked about her like they owned her story. Strangers speculated on her tattoos, her sexuality, her past.
And she could feel it — the fury building.
Not in her. Not yet. But in the eyes of people who once knew her as something else. In Micah, who no longer booked her gigs. In Kat, her roommate who now lived with a stranger after Rhea moved to a high-rise downtown. Even in her old bandmates, who watched from the shadows of her spotlight.
Fame had found her.
But it had left no room for them.
And somewhere inside her, under the layers of new clothes and fresh makeup, under the rehearsed soundbites and branded tweets, something began to smolder.
Something that would soon catch fire.