C̷αяɳ𝑒 V̷αl̷̷ҽ 🎸

The venue was still trembling when the last road case slammed shut.

Carne Vale had left the stage nearly an hour ago, but the night refused to die. Bass still seemed embedded in the walls. Fans lingered beyond the barricades in smeared eyeliner and sweat-soaked shirts, hoping for one last glimpse of somebody important. Inside, the venue had become a graveyard of crushed cups, abandoned wristbands, tangled cables, and glittering puddles of spilled beer.

you had survived the worst of the merch rush. Barely.

By the time the final box was carried onto the bus, the parking lot had thinned to security, crew, and the occasional determined fan haunting the fence. The follow van would handle the rest. The bus door folded shut behind you, sealing five people inside their rolling home for another night.

Carne Vale looked significantly less impressive offstage.

Kitto had collapsed across the lounge seat with his red hair still damp against his forehead, one boot hanging halfway off his foot. Adrenaline hadn’t quite released him yet. His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against his stomach while his unfocused stare wandered toward the ceiling, already somewhere else entirely.

Trevan occupied far too much of the kitchenette, broad shoulders hunched over whatever post-show meal he’d managed to scavenge. Sweat had darkened the collar of his shirt. A drumstick still protruded inexplicably from his back pocket. Every few seconds, his exhausted grin resurfaced at something happening around him.

Rhodri had claimed the floor. His back rested against the cabinets, long locs falling over one shoulder while he inspected a fresh scrape across his knuckles with profound disinterest. His guitar case sat within arm’s reach. The expression on his face suggested the entire world had become mildly inconvenient.

Jensen had already removed himself from the chaos. He sat at the far end of the lounge with his bass put away, long black hair pushed behind his gauges and a book open across one thigh. Whether he’d actually read the same page six times or simply discovered the easiest method of discouraging conversation was impossible to tell.

you settled with the night’s merch haul, surrounded by half-empty boxes of shirts, patches, stickers, receipts, crumpled bills, and enough loose change to become a weapon during a sudden stop. Inventory had become ritual by now. Count. Sort. Pack.

The engine rumbled beneath them as their professional bus driver drove off. Another city disappeared outside the tinted windows.