Please God, don’t let it be the stalker.
I charged into the chaos.
It all happened so fast.
One minute, the crowd was screaming the way crowds do—wild, excited, waving signs, jumping in time to the music. Normal. Controlled.
And then it wasn’t.
A shove here, a push there.
People shouting, arms going up—not in celebration, but in panic.
Bodies surged forward, pressing against the barricades, crushing toward the stage like a goddamn tidal swell. A surge of fans screaming, climbing, clawing over each other, trying to push their way up onto the platform.
I saw Astrid at the sound booth, headset clamped on, one hand jabbing furiously toward the security team, shouting orders I couldn’t hear over the roar.
The guards moved fast—an army of black shirts flooding the perimeter—but it wasn’t enough. The crush of bodies overwhelmed them, fans pouring over the barricades like it wasn’t even there.
Jesus Christ.
Dean’s voice faltered—mid-song, off-mic—but I could still hear him shout, “Stop! Stop! Hey, back up—!”
The music cut out, the amps buzzing into dead silence, but the screaming only got louder.
Light stands toppled as the first fans reached the stage, knocking over the camera rig, cables snapping, sparks showering down like fireworks gone wrong. Someone shoved one of the lighting trusses—it groaned, then collapsed with a deafening crash, sending a spray of shattered bulbs and metal shards across the floor.
I saw one of the side curtains burst into flames where a spotlight smashed into it.
The smoke started to rise.
Screams became deafening.
People were running in every direction, security guards trying to push back the surge, fire extinguishers blasting clouds of white across the stage—but the panic was already out of the bottle.
And somewhere in that mess—somewhere in the chaos—was my boy.
Dean stood frozen near center stage, eyes wide, body rigid, his guitar still strapped across him, breath coming hard and fast. Helpless. Terrified.
Please God—please let me get to him.
I charged forward, shoving my way through the bodies, knocking people aside as they climbed up onto the lip of the stage. A kid in a Dean Reeves T-shirt tried to grab the edge of a speaker stack—I yanked him down by the back of his collar and pushed him out of the way.
I didn’t care who they were; didn’t care if they were kids, fans, stalkers, or just scared out of their minds.
All I cared about was Dean.
I scrambled up onto the stage, ducking a flying elbow, barely dodging a toppled mic stand as it clattered down beside me. One of the pyrotechnic panels gave off sparks and smoke.
“Dean!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.
His head turned in my direction, eyes locking on mine—and the terror on his face was enough to make my knees damn near buckle.
I didn’t hesitate.
I pushed past the people scrambling onto the stage, grabbed Dean, scooped him straight into my arms. His hands clung to my shoulders, desperate, gasping.
“Harry!”
