The Four Horse-Cocks Of Apocalypse
The sound wasn't scheduled.
Valerie Ashcroft knew every beat booked at The Hollow Room that day, and this wasn't one of them. She paused mid-step in the back hallway, the soft knock of her heels echoing off concrete, clipboard nestled against her hip. The noise came again--bass, not quite music, not quite noise, pounding in uneven waves through the back wall. It had that raw, unfiltered texture that either meant someone was fucking around or something worth hearing was starting to crack through.
She pushed open the back door and stepped into the warmth of the late afternoon. Light bled orange over the asphalt, catching on the hoods of parked cars and the haze of cigarette smoke curling lazily into the air. The sound was louder here--sharper now. A beat riding on a car stereo, spliced live with a drum pad balanced on the hood. And four of them--young, loud, alive--moving like the alley was already their stage.
One stood on the trunk of the car, shirtless, body hard with sweat and heat, his voice slicing through the air like he owned it. Not polished, not rehearsed--
real
. The others kept pace: one working the beats with practiced chaos, another leaning against the passenger side with a smoke tucked behind his ear, laughing at something unseen, and the last filming the whole thing with the kind of stillness that suggested control, not detachment.
Valerie stood in the doorway for a moment, caught not in admiration, but something adjacent. Recognition. She had seen this before--twenty years ago, in greenrooms and soundcheck hellscapes, in motel bathrooms where people tuned guitars with trembling hands and wild ideas. That frantic, magnetic presence. The kind you couldn't teach.
Her tailored black dress felt too corporate in this moment. Her posture too rehearsed. And yet, she couldn't look away.
Behind her, the back door swung again. Noah stepped out, squinting into the light, a stack of crumpled flyers clutched in one hand. He stopped beside her, followed her gaze, and visibly tensed.
"Tell me that's not who I think it is," he muttered.
Valerie tilted her head, eyes never leaving the alley. "They're not on the lineup."
"They're not even supposed to be near here."
She hummed thoughtfully. "They've got presence. Raw energy. That's rare."
Noah's voice dropped. "They're
trouble
, Mom."
Valerie didn't argue. She knew what she was looking at. The barely-reined-in aggression, the casual vulgarity, the reckless confidence. It radiated off them in waves. But that wasn't all. Beneath the noise and arrogance, there was a beat that hit her gut first, before her mind could process why.
"So were The Rolling Stones," she said quietly. "So were The Sex Pistols. Nirvana. N.W.A. Trouble doesn't scare me."
Noah looked at her like she was slipping into a language he didn't speak. "They're not a band. They're four assholes who spent high school making people like me miserable."
"And yet," she said, turning to meet his eyes, "they've got something your friends' bands don't."
"What?"
She looked back toward the group. Booker--yes, that was his name--had noticed her now. He hadn't missed a beat, but he was watching her. Assessing. Smiling with one side of his mouth, like he'd expected her all along.
Valerie's voice was steady, almost amused.
"Fire."
Noah took a step forward, his voice dropping low. "Please don't do this, Mom. I'm serious."
She didn't look at him. She just continued to watch. Listen.
She stayed in the doorway, half-shadowed, clipboard still tucked against her hip, as the sound bled out into the fading light. It wasn't clean. It wasn't polished. But there was
something
in it. Something that vibrated in her ribs and stirred a place she hadn't touched in a long time.
She'd been a musician once. Not just someone who liked music. Not just someone with a good ear or a decent voice. She had lived it. Breathed it. She'd played bars in her twenties, opened for real bands in her thirties, even cut a record that almost got picked up by an indie label. It wasn't about fame. It was about making something real. It had been messy, uncertain, loud. But it had mattered.
She
had mattered.
And then--she gave it up. For love. For stability. For the right thing.
Richard had offered her the world, and in return, she'd traded her own.
The house. The children. The perfect suburban life. She told herself she was lucky. And she was. Sophie, Emily, and Noah were the best things she'd ever done. She told herself she didn't miss the stage. Didn't miss the smoke, the sweat, the wild nights that ended with aching vocal cords and sore fingers. That was behind her.
The club,
The Hollow Room
, had been a gift from Richard five years ago. "So you can stay involved," he'd said. "Something fun." It was a clean, upscale venue with good lighting and better acoustics. She booked safe acts. Local bands. Jazz nights. Cover sets. It was tidy. Controlled. Pleasant.
It was nothing like what she loved.
And here they were--these four unruly boys, half-naked and too loud, taking over her alley like they owned it. The kind of energy that would've scared her venue staff. The kind of energy that would've gotten them banned from a showcase. The kind of energy she used to
be
.
Her eyes lingered on the lead one--Booker, she remembered now. He wasn't just rapping; he was commanding the space. The others backed him instinctively. They weren't just friends messing around--they were orbiting something. Something powerful.
And something cracked open inside her chest.
She had given enough. Given up enough.
The kids were grown. Emily was married. Sophie was gone more than home. Noah was barely present, even when he was in the room. And Richard--well, Richard was in Tokyo this week. Or was it Frankfurt?
There was nothing left to nurture. Nothing left that needed her. Except maybe herself.
She let her gaze fall for a moment--not at the boys in the alley, but at her own reflection in the polished glass of the back door.
Her black dress clung without clinging. Structured, tasteful. But it couldn't quite hide the generous swell of her breasts, high and full in the sculpted bodice, or the way her waist dipped into hips that carried a kind of slow, sultry weight with every step she took. Her legs, long and toned, disappeared into modest heels, and her skin--smooth, sun-kissed, with a warm golden undertone--still held the glow of youth, but deepened now with experience.
Her hair--jet black, sleek and naturally thick--was pinned up in a loose twist, with soft tendrils curling around her temples and neck. When it was down, it reached her shoulder blades in heavy waves, and she used to toss it over her shoulder like punctuation when she still had something to prove.
Her eyes were a deep, piercing blue, cooler than sapphire, clear enough to silence people mid-sentence when she stared too long. And her mouth--full, plush, lined in wet bright red gloss--stood out like something made for sin, even when she wasn't smiling.
She was forty-four. A mother of three. A wife. A business owner.
But she still looked like a woman meant to be
seen
.
Her heart beat harder, not from nerves--but purpose.
That was when she stepped forward.
Valerie stepped off the concrete threshold and into the golden spill of alley light. The sound of the car speaker thudded low behind the voices, but they noticed her immediately. All four heads turned, the music bleeding into silence.
