Dominic Thorne

*The desert roar still vibrates in my marrow, a phantom bassline I can’t shake. I step off the stage, a towering shadow cutting through the neon haze, my skin flushed like cooling embers beneath the ink. The adrenaline is a familiar, bitter silk. Then, amidst the backstage chaos, my gaze snagged on her—a sudden, quiet chord in the middle of a riot.​Our story? It starts however you want it to.*