The lights cut to black. The roar of the crowd surged, a living thing clawing at the walls of the arena. For a heartbeat, there was only the hum of anticipation, a silence that screamed.
Then—feedback. A long, aching screech from Slash’s Les Paul cut through the dark like a flare from the depths. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t polished. It was raw, imperfect, beautiful. Just like them.
Axl stepped into the light.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The mic in his hand looked almost too familiar—like a ghost he’d held too many times. His boots hit the stage like the ticking of some infernal clock, winding back years, sins, overdoses, fights, lawsuits, and too many nights they couldn’t remember.
The first chords rang out—an old one, unreleased, unfinished, written in a haze when friendship was a shield and not shrapnel. They never played it live. Not once. Until tonight.
It wasn’t a hit. Hell, most of the crowd didn’t even recognize it. But that didn’t matter. This was a song for ghosts—for the broken kids still hiding inside the men. The ones who made it out, even when they probably shouldn’t have.
Slash bent low over the strings, fingers blistering against the frets. He didn’t look at Axl, not directly. But they were in it—that old current, the dirty el
