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I never would've thought that posting punk-rock covers of famous songs on YouTube would make us famous. Even now, when rehearsing our newest single with the band, the idea was sending a chill down my spine, a cold prickle that started at the base of my skull and trickled downward through my shoulder blades. My eyes travelled along the walls of my parents' battered garage, skimming over the posters of famous rock bands we took inspiration from, when we were younger, their faded edges curling in the humid, dust-moted air that smelled faintly of motor oil and old wood.

The lead singer of one of my favourite bands screamed into a mic on a glossy print, his mouth frozen in perpetual anguish, and the image took me back to when The Broken Red Guitars first started, when the fluorescent lights above buzzed with a nervous energy that matched our own. We were all teenagers covered in acne, and afraid of rejection, our fingers clumsy on unfamiliar strings, our voices cracking with uncertainty. Especially me. I never had confidence, not in my playing, not in my singing, not in anything I tried to offer the world.

The memory of Mrs. Smith's rejection haunted me even to this day, a sharp sting I could still feel in my chest like a splinter I'd never managed to dig out. I chose to brush it aside, shaking my head slightly as if the motion could dislodge the thought. I was already thirty, just like all my friends from the band, our youth now a distant echo in this same dusty space. I had everything I wanted… Except a lover, and that absence sat in my gut like a hollow ache I couldn't name.

Although our agent paid for a fancy studio we could record in, all glass and polished floors and sterile lighting, we still preferred playing here, where the concrete was cold beneath our shoes and the warmth of our bodies was the only heat source. This garage helped us remember our roots, the rough edges and the raw sounds that had first brought us together. I glanced at each member of our little, but loyal group, smiling at everyone, letting the affection I felt for them warm the cold corners of my anxiety. Eve, our bass player, with her copper hair and sparkling aquamarine green eyes, was the heart of our team, the one who gathered us all together, and came up with the idea to post covers on YouTube, her fingers always moving, always tapping out a rhythm against her thigh. Then, there was Gilbert - my best friend and the lead guitarist, his jaw set in that focused way he got before a solo, and the craziest drummer in the world - Marvin, whose drumsticks were never far from his hands, even now, twirling them between his fingers. We came from different paths, but our love of music connected each and every one of us, an invisible thread pulled tight across the years.

They didn't notice me observing them, though, their eyes closed or fixed on their instruments, lost in the world we were creating. As always, the music was in their veins and their souls, a current that carried them far from the peeling paint and the faint smell of gasoline. Once we started playing, we lost track of time and space, the hours slipping away like water through cupped hands, the afternoon sun slanting through the grimy window and painting gold stripes across the floor. This time was different for me for some reason, the chords I played feeling heavier, more significant, as if each note carried a weight I hadn't noticed before. I was feeling sentimental. Emotional, my throat tightening around the words I sang, my voice wavering just slightly. I guess, deep down, I knew things would change after the reality show, that this familiar space might never feel quite the same again.

When the song was finished, the last notes fading into the dust-filled air, a silhouette appeared outside of the garage, backlit by the harsh afternoon sun that made me squint. It was Arthur, our manager, his familiar outline casting a long shadow across the concrete floor, his polished shoes incongruous against the grime. It was only last week that he told us about the new idea the agency cooked up for us, his voice slick with enthusiasm as he laid out the proposal over lukewarm coffee in a cramped diner. And although we were a bit reluctant, our stomachs churning with unease, it did seem like a great option for increasing our popularity, a golden ticket we'd be fools to refuse.

As I understood, in the show business there was no such thing as enough money (or too much, for that matter), the hunger for more always gnawing at the edges of every success. And, Arthur being Arthur, wanted us to earn even more, his eyes already calculating percentages and projections before we'd even agreed. YouTube covers, bar performances and charity concerts weren't enough anymore, their returns diminishing as the novelty wore off. We needed to go big. And, according to him, what better way to do that than by facing our competitors, the tension and drama practically guaranteed to draw eyes to our screens?

“Are we ready?” Arthur beamed at us, asking as if he was going to join us, his arms spread wide in a gesture of inclusivity that felt hollow. Nope, as usual, we had to do all the hard work, sweating it out while he made the calls and counted the checks.

Were we? I didn't know, the question settling in my bones like a heavy stone. Gilbert needed to part with his girlfriend, Manuela, behind, to move in with us – and our rival band – for a week, and I could see the strain in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened on his guitar neck. Eve was an independent woman, her chin lifted, her posture relaxed, so, I was sure this strange reality show would put the least strain on her, her adaptability a quiet strength I admired. I was worried about Marvin, though, because he tended to bottle up everything that bothered him, his silence a deeper mystery than any of his drum fills, and I feared what might happen when that bottle finally cracked.

And then there was me, my own anxieties curling in my stomach like a nest of snakes. How was I going to deal with this, this artificial world of cameras and scripts and manufactured conflict? Our fans hated the fans of Purple Vanilla, their online feuds vicious and personal, but I didn't agree with all the fights, the anger feeling misplaced and wasteful. I actually thought that Purple Vanilla were cool, their sound a refreshing breeze in a stale genre, and wanted to meet them, to talk music without the baggage of rivalry. I adored their newest album titled “The Lost Train,” the cover art a watercolor blur of tracks disappearing into mist. It was about a metaphorical journey through life, each song a stop along the way. All songs were titled: “Station: Home,” “Station: Love,” “Station: Heartbreak,” and so on, the simplicity of the concept belying its emotional depth. They were written by Wilk, his words cutting straight to the heart, and composed by both him and Austin, their partnership producing a sound that was both raw and refined. Skyler added her dream-pop, psychedelic vibe to their acoustic tracks, her voice a haunting layer that lingered long after the song ended, turning each song into a masterpiece able to touch young people's hearts, including my own, which ached with every listen. I felt really mad respect for Purple Vanilla, especially Wilk, whose lyrics felt like they'd been pulled from my own diary. His lyrics were so incredibly powerful… I didn't know, where he learned to write them, but, I wanted to have attended that literature teacher's class, to sit in that same room and absorb whatever magic had been poured into his pen. Arthur mentioned that by participating in the reality show with Purple Vanilla, we could convince our viewers, we could create something awesome together, our combined talents a force for good rather than division. I couldn't wait to do it, my pulse quickening at the thought! It should be interesting… a new adventure, even if the path to it was paved with uncertainty.

*

Ugh, I hated it when Arthur kept changing the goalpost, each new reveal a fresh blow to my already fragile trust! The minibus hummed beneath us, its engine a low, constant drone that vibrated through the worn seats, and the afternoon heat pressed against the windows, making the air inside thick and stifling. But then again, I was also aware that if he had told us at the beginning what we were getting ourselves into, we wouldn't have agreed, our refusal immediate and absolute. Not a chance. Competitions, yeah, right, I thought, my fingers digging into the vinyl of the seat. The promise was broken, the trust gone, and the weight of that betrayal sat heavy on my chest, making each breath feel like an effort. How could we move on from that, from the knowledge that we'd been led here under false pretenses, our goodwill exploited for someone else's gain?

Arthur sensed my anger, the tension radiating from me like heat from asphalt, because he quickly added, his voice a soothing balm that did nothing to calm me: “Look, it will all be fine. All you guys need to do is stick to your scripts. It won't be that hard. Everyone will have a role to play, just like in the band, yes?”

I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn't see, the gesture wasted on his oblivious back. He was travelling in the front of the minibus, his reflection a vague shape in the rearview mirror, while we were at the back, our shoulders bumping with every turn. Everyone was either busy gloomily looking out the window, at the beautiful lanes we were driving down, their eyes glazed, their thoughts elsewhere, or staring blankly at the floor, leaving me to carry the weight of our collective discontent.

“This is different.” I protested, a little upset, none of them said anything, leaving complaining to me, my voice the only sound above the engine. “How do we know if we can do it, if you don't even tell us what our roles are going to be? Shouldn't someone inform us, what lengths we're expected to go, to get more fame? What if they make me pretend, I'm a chicken? I don't want to do this!” The absurdity of the image almost made me laugh, but the anger was too fresh, too sharp.

I knew I shouldn't act like this, my voice climbing an octave, my cheeks flushing with heat… But the more Arthur lied to us, the less I trusted him, each evasion a fresh crack in the foundation of our working relationship. And he just told us that one of us would be lying in the reality show, the word hanging in the air like smoke. Literally, his or her role would be to deliberately sabotage everyone else's mission, to undermine and deceive, and the thought made my stomach churn. Now, I couldn't trust my friends, either, my eyes darting to each of them, searching for the betrayer among their familiar faces! This was sick, a perverse game I'd never agreed to play.

Arthur cleared his throat, looking a tad bit uncomfortable now, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his briefcase, the leather creaking softly. “You will find out soon enough, what your role is, and you will still have free will to a certain extent,” he said, the words careful, measured, as if he were walking a tightrope.

That certain extent was what worried me, the ambiguity of it a door left slightly ajar, but I let it go for the time being, swallowing my protest. Gilbert placed a hand on my shoulder, his palm warm and solid, a grounding presence in the shifting chaos.

“We will participate in this cursed reality show once, and then all our problems will be solved,” he said, his voice low and steady, meant only for me. “Think about it. This is good publicity, and we even get to spend a week in a fancy mansion. We get to play as well, so, what else could we want?” His thumb pressed gently into my shoulder blade, a silent reassurance.

Eve smiled at me timidly, too, her aquamarine eyes soft in the dim light of the van. “Yes, and think about all the opportunities with Purple Vanilla. Just imagine what would it be like if our fans didn't hate each other, but worked as a group instead. Wouldn't that be great?” Her optimism was a small flame in the dark, and I found myself leaning toward it.

I didn't care about the fame, not really, not in the way Arthur did, but the idea of meeting the band brought my cheerful mood back, a spark of genuine excitement cutting through the dread. Even though I hated pretending to be someone I wasn't, the performance of it grating against my every instinct, I assumed I could put up with it for a week, just to chat with Wilk, to ask him about his process, his inspiration, the source of his magic.

“Alright, alright.” I gave in, the fight draining out of me like air from a punctured tire, my shoulders slumping in resignation. “Let's do this.”

The group cheered, their voices a chorus of relief, and even Marvin smiled at me, a rare, fleeting expression that softened his usually stoic features. Looking at Arthur, I added, my voice firm despite my exhaustion: “But no more surprises, okay?”

He mumbled something I didn't quite catch, the words lost in the rumble of the engine and the rush of wind past the window, but I didn't have a chance to ask him to repeat himself, because we parked right in front of an expensive mansion with massive iron gates and a manicured lawn, the sight of it stealing my breath. I raised an eyebrow at the luxuriousness of it, the sheer opulence of the place, the way the sun glinted off the windows like scattered diamonds. But then again, if we were to be filmed doing this, I guess we couldn't do it in a barn, the contrast too stark, the aesthetics all wrong for the kind of glossy production Arthur had in mind.

“Wow!” Eve and Gilbert said at the same time as we got out, their voices overlapping in shared awe, making me chuckle, the sound surprising me.

“Not bad.” Marvin commented, his tone flat, but his eyes betrayed his interest, scanning the grounds with quiet appreciation.

We were supposed to enter the place, the massive oak doors looming before us, but, I still didn't know whether I was ready for a reality show like this, the weight of the unknown pressing down on my shoulders like a physical force. I had to keep reminding myself of all reasons for participating, reciting them like a mantra in my head. Arthur was walking behind me, patting me not-so-gently on the shoulder, his palm a sharp, insistent pressure that pushed me forward. I coughed, the air cooler here, tinged with the scent of fresh grass and distant flowers, and he rolled his eyes at me, ushering us all in with a sweeping gesture.

I glanced around quickly, deciding to take a walk in the gorgeous garden when possible, the thought of escaping the cameras a small comfort. I was sure I would need some privacy at some point, without any cameras pointing at me, a moment of quiet where I could breathe without performing. I was keen to explore all the Greek statues and fountains, too, their white marble gleaming in the afternoon light, the sound of trickling water a gentle music I could already imagine. To my surprise, the interiors were a mixture of modern practicality and the old-fashioned elegance of times long gone, the polished floors reflecting the crystal chandeliers, the sleek furniture sitting alongside ornate fireplaces. An ivory staircase spiralled up on both sides of the hall, its balustrades smooth and cool to the touch, leading up to the first floor, where the rooms were, each door a promise of secrets and space. Arthur showed us around most of them, his voice a droning commentary on amenities and schedules, adding, we could explore the recording studio only tomorrow, the delay another small frustration. He also instructed us to avoid wandering, his tone sharpening slightly, until we knew all rules, the warning delivered with a pointed look at each of us in turn.

This worried me, the restriction chafing against my curiosity, the mansion suddenly feeling less like a home and more like a gilded cage. Apparently, we couldn't meet the other band till twilight, the hours until then stretching out like an eternity. I knew that Arthur was still keeping a trick or two up his sleeve, his smile too knowing, his eyes too quick to shift away, and I could only hope that they wouldn't be some dealbreaker, some final betrayal that would shatter what little trust remained. I had a feeling I was about to find out about something I didn't like, the certainty of it settling in my gut like a stone. And the fact that there were lots of cameras in the mansion, their black lenses winking from corners and ceilings, didn't help, either, their presence a constant reminder of our performance. I let out a sigh, hoping that they weren't turned on yet, the weight of their potential gaze making my skin prickle.

Then, Arthur lead us into a secret room, as he called it, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Fair enough, it differed from all the others, the air cooler here, the lighting softer, almost reverent. It was in the hues of ivory, dark blue and silver, and had pine furniture, the wood polished to a warm glow, its scent filling the space with a clean, forest-like freshness. There was a round table in the middle, surrounded by twelve chairs, their high backs like silent sentinels, and something covered by a bed sheet in one corner, its shape mysterious and vaguely technological. I kept glancing at the thing, my curiosity piqued, and Arthur walked up to it, revealing what was underneath with a theatrical flourish: a touch-screen computer, surprisingly similar to the ones you see in McDonald's, its surface gleaming under the soft lights. The only difference was, it had our reality show's name on it, the letters bold and insistent, and it likely wouldn't order us any good food, the thought making my stomach twist with nervous anticipation.

Arthur cleared his throat, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet room. “For the next week, this will be your best friend. We call him Francis. He's going to be your connection to the outside world. Through his screen, you can see the ratings of the bands, fans' comments, and more. Oh, and guess what?”

I didn't want to take the bait, my jaw tightening, and Eve was quicker anyway, asking an excited what? her voice bright and eager, just as Arthur expected.

Arthur beamed at her, his pleasure evident. “I'm glad you asked, Eve. Well, in a few moments, you will all have a chance to say hi to your loyal fans and introduce yourselves. But before that happens…”

He trailed off, deliberately stretching the silence, as if wanting to increase the tension, the seconds ticking by like slow drips of water. I wanted to tell him to just spit it out already, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I didn't want to be nasty, biting them back with effort. After a minute or so, he pulled four purple envelopes out of his bag, with four different sigils, their surfaces catching the light, and distributed them to us, each one cool and smooth in my palm.

“Open these once you are alone in your rooms, and keep them safe,” he said, his voice dropping to a serious register. “Remember, nobody can know what your roles are. You can't share them with each other, either. Purple Vanilla is getting red envelopes, by the way. Cool, isn't it?”

Again, nobody answered, the silence stretching awkwardly, so he continued giving us instructions for Francis, his voice fading into a background hum as I stared at the envelope in my hand, the sigil seeming to pulse with hidden meaning.