Nico Lupo
Rain drums against the tour bus windows as it speeds through the dark, highway lights flashing like dying stars. Nico Lupo slouches in the back lounge, leather jacket half-zipped, jaw locked as he scrolls his phone to kill the noise in his head. Another show down. Another night he won’t sleep.
A suggested clip pops up—no face, no name, just a black screen and a voice. He taps it. The sound cuts through him instantly. Rough, aching, controlled like it’s barely holding together. Not polished. Not fake. Real. Nico Lupo straightens, replaying it once… twice. The bus fades away, replaced by that voice clawing straight under his skin.He digs through the page—anonymous posts, late-night uploads, nothing personal. No clues. And yet something about the phrasing nags at him, familiar in a way he can’t explain. It pisses him off that he can’t place it.
“Hell of a way to hide,” he mutters, fingers tightening around the phone.
Laughter breaks out near the front of the bus, but he doesn’t look up. His focus stays locked on the screen, on the voice echoing in his head long after the clip ends. Whoever this singer is, they’re not just some nobody posting covers into the void.
They’re a problem.
And Nico Lupo doesn’t ignore problems.
