Chapter 15 – The Major Br
The city hummed with a rhythm that Collins had not felt in what seemed like forever. It was not the anxious hum of patrols scouring the streets or the heavy silence of a population cowed into obedience. No, this was different. It was alive, charged, full of hidden sparks waiting to ignite. There was an electricity in the air that no siren could silence and no decree could erase.
Word had been spreading for weeks, whispered in coded fragments, exchanged in fleeting glances, embedded in songs that never made it to the broadcast waves. Something was coming something daring, something dangerous. An underground gathering, a festival spoken of only in shadows. A gathering not of fear, but of anticipation.
Collins had heard it first through Elias. A message had been passed, encoded, bouncing through secret networks until it reached them. The Pulse that was the name whispered with reverence, half legend, half reality. No one knew who they were exactly, only that they moved like ghosts, weaving through the cracks of the city's oppression, binding musicians and rebels together. And now, for the first time, The Pulse had extended an invitation to him and his band.
The message was simple, but heavy with promise:
Warehouse 17B. Midnight. Bring your sound. Bring your fire.
Collins read it again and again, as if expecting the words to vanish. Each time, his chest tightened. Could this truly be it? The break they had fought for, bled for, nearly lost everything for? Or was it the authorities' latest trick, bait to lure them into the open?
He lowered the screen and looked up. Amara was seated across from him, eyes fixed on him, her guitar case leaning against the wall beside her. There was an unspoken question in her gaze, though her voice broke the silence.
"Warehouse 17B," she said softly. "It feels like a trap."
Collins exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "It could be. But if it isn't…" His voice trailed off before he steadied it. "If it isn't, this could be what we've been waiting for."
Amara tilted her head. "And if it is a trap?"
"Then we face it together," Collins replied firmly. His eyes burned with determination. "We've come too far to turn back now. The Beat doesn't hide forever. Tonight we play, Amara. Tonight we show them we're still alive."
The rest of the band sat nearby, listening in silence until Sam finally leaned forward. His hands drummed on his knees, restless energy pulsing through him. "I say we go. We've been hunted, caged, silenced. Maybe this is reckless, maybe it's stupid but it's also a chance to remind them we're still here."
Mia, quieter than usual, gave a small nod. Her voice was soft but resolute. "We've survived raids. We've survived cells. We can survive this. And if this is real…" She allowed herself a faint smile. "Then maybe tonight is the night the city finally hears us again."
Jax grinned despite the tension, adjusting the strap of his bass. "I don't care if it's a trap. I've got songs clawing to get out of me. If they try to cage us, I'll make sure the last thing they hear is the Beat shaking their bones."
Elias adjusted his glasses, tapping on his device. "I'll keep watch, handle the feeds, loop cameras where I can. But Collins once you step onto that stage, there's no going back. The city will know. The authorities will know. Every eye will be on you."
Collins looked at each of them, one by one. His family. His band. His reason for enduring every scar. He nodded. "Then let them watch. Tonight, the Beat refuses to die."
The streets on the way to Warehouse 17B were different from usual. They were quiet, but not the suffocating quiet of curfew. Instead, it was the calm before something greater, a quiet that pulsed with hidden life. The city had layers, and Collins felt as though he was peeling them back with each step.
They moved in shadows, guitars slung across backs, drumsticks tucked into Sam's jacket, wires coiled in their bags. The instruments felt heavier than usual, as if they carried not only sound but destiny itself. Every echo of their footsteps across wet pavement reminded Collins of the times they had been chased through these same alleys, the sting of searchlights, the roar of sirens. But tonight was different. Tonight they walked forward willingly, unchained, towards the fire.
Elias whispered updates as they navigated. "No patrols for three blocks. Sensors minimal. The Pulse knew what they were doing when they chose this path. But don't relax. They could be waiting."
Collins nodded without slowing his pace. His grip on his guitar tightened. "Then we stay sharp."
At last they stood before the unmarked doors of Warehouse 17B. The building looked abandoned, its brick walls stained with age, windows cracked, roof sagging in parts. From the outside, it was nothing, a forgotten husk in a forgotten district. But Collins felt it the faint thrum beneath the surface, like a hidden heartbeat.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the world changed.
Dim lights swung from the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced across the concrete floor. People moved with quiet urgency, setting up amplifiers, tuning instruments, stringing cables. Whispers filled the air, excited, cautious, reverent. The atmosphere was chaotic yet strangely synchronized, like an orchestra tuning before a grand performance.
The crowd was small at first glance, but every face was alive with expectation. They were rebels, dreamers, outcasts, musicians who had survived the crackdown. Their eyes glowed with the hunger of those who had been starved of sound. They weren't here for spectacle. They were here for salvation.
A hooded figure approached, face hidden. Without a word, they gestured toward the stage at the far end. Collins stepped forward.
"This is it?" he asked quietly.
The figure gave a single nod, then melted back into the crowd.
Collins scanned the space again. His heart pounded, but not with fear. This was it,the chance to turn whispers into thunder.
Amara leaned closer, her smile faint but fierce. "This is our chance. Let's burn it into their memories."
The band set up quickly. Sam tested his drums, the faint rolls echoing against steel beams. Jax tuned his bass, each deep note reverberating like distant thunder. Amara adjusted her guitar, plucking sharp notes that sliced through the murmurs. Mia warmed her voice, soft tones rising like mist.
Collins stood at the microphone, his guitar hanging heavy across his chest. He strummed once, twice, the sound filling the warehouse. For a moment, silence followed. Then the crowd leaned forward, as if a single chord had pulled them into orbit.
He glanced at the cracked mirror propped against a wall. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, worn frame, but alive, burning, unbroken.
"Tonight," Collins whispered under his breath, "we play for every voice they silenced. We play for every Beat they tried to bury."
Then he raised his head and let the music speak.
The first note tore through the silence like lightning through storm clouds. Amara's guitar screamed with fire, Sam's drums rolled in like thunder, Jax's bass rumbled through the floor, and Mia's harmonies soared above it all, lifting Collins's voice into the air like wings.
The crowd erupted instantly. No restraint, no hesitation only raw release. Hands shot into the air, bodies swayed and stamped in rhythm, voices shouted with abandon. The Beat had returned, and it was no longer just music. It was resistance.
Collins felt it surge through him. Every strum was a declaration, every lyric a defiance. He looked at the crowd and saw not just faces but believers. The Pulse had not only brought them together. They had created a sanctuary.
One song bled into another, each louder, bolder, freer. The warehouse shook with sound, the concrete walls trembling beneath the force of hundreds of voices merging with the band's. Collins's chest burned with exertion, but he did not stop. He could not stop.
Halfway through the set, Collins's eyes caught on a figure near the back. A man in a long coat, unmoving, watching with sharp intensity. Collins's stomach tightened.
"Authorities?" he muttered to Amara between verses.
She followed his gaze. Her jaw tightened, but she didn't falter. "Could be. Could be nothing. Doesn't matter. Keep playing."
Collins nodded, strumming harder, louder. The music became his shield. If the man was here to betray them, then let him see the full weight of what he would try to silence.
Song after song poured out of them. Sweat slicked their skin, exhaustion gnawed at their limbs, but adrenaline drowned it all. The Beat was alive, roaring, unstoppable.
Then came the final song.
Collins looked at his bandmates, their eyes gleaming despite fatigue. He raised his guitar. "This one's for every raid, every cell, every silence they forced on us. Tonight, we break free."
The music began soft, haunting, almost fragile. The crowd hushed, swaying gently. Then, with a sudden crash of Sam's drums, the song exploded. Guitars screamed, bass thundered, voices soared. The warehouse shook with the force of it, the sound leaking out into the night, spilling into the city like wildfire.
The crowd became one body, one voice, one heartbeat. Together they stamped, clapped, roared, until it felt as though the walls themselves were singing. Collins closed his eyes and felt it surge through him the undeniable truth that the Beat was larger than him, larger than the band, larger than the city. It was alive.
And then came the sirens.
They wailed outside, sharp and merciless, cutting through the crescendo like blades. Collins froze mid-strum, heart pounding. The crowd faltered, voices dipping into anxious murmurs. But Amara met his eyes, fire blazing, and without a word they both understood.
Play louder.
Fight harder
Collins stepped forward, his voice raw and powerful. "No silence! No fear! We are the Beat!"
The crowd roared back, louder than before. The music surged again, drowning the sirens, shaking the very ground.
But outside, engines growled. Black vans screeched to a halt. Doors slammed. Boots pounded. The authorities had come.
They tried to force the main doors, pounding with rifles, voices barking orders. One officer's voice boomed through a megaphone. "Disperse immediately! This assembly is illegal!"
No one moved. The crowd pressed closer to the stage, forming a wall of bodies. They shouted, sang, chanted, their defiance becoming part of the song.
Collins strummed harder, Mia's voice soaring higher, Amara's guitar wailing like a battle cry, Sam's drums pounding like artillery, Jax's bass shaking the floor. The Beat had become a weapon, and everyone in the warehouse wielded it.
But then Collins saw them dark figures slipping through side entrances, uniforms unmistakable. The trap had sprung.
He leaned into the mic, voice fierce. "We play because silence kills! We play because the Beat belongs to all of us!"
The crowd answered with a roar that shook the rafters. But Collins knew the truth the walls could not hold forever.
As the last chord rang out, deafening applause erupted. Sweat-soaked, trembling, the band stood together, eyes locked.
Then the pounding on the doors intensified.
Elias's voice crackled through Collins's earpiece. "They've surrounded you. Multiple units. You have minutes, maybe less. You need to move now!"
Collins's chest heaved. He looked at Amara, Mia, Sam, Jax. No words were needed. They had trained for this moment.
He raised his guitar one last time, eyes blazing. "We move together. We survive together. The Beat never dies."
The doors groaned under the assault. The shadows of soldiers spilled into the side corridors. The crowd pressed tighter, voices rising into a single, defiant chant.
Collins gripped his guitar, heart hammering as the walls shook around them.
The major break had come.
Would it be their triumph… or their downfall?
The chapter ends with the warehouse under siege, the authorities closing in, the crowd refusing to disperse, and the band preparing to make their escape. Collins knows this night will either cement the Beat as unstoppable or destroy everything they have built.