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... de The Drift, the city's night air cool against his sweat-damp skin, carrying the scent of rain and distant fryer grease. His guitar case rested at his feet, the leather strap's stars glinting under a streetlamp, a quiet echo of his mom's pride. The gig's neon fire still burned in his veins—Shatterpoint, Flicker, Fireflies, Echo Back, Dust Road—their raw truth shaking the stage, the crowd's chants a memory that felt both vivid and surreal. Shatterpoint was at seventeen thousand listens, Flicker ...

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