Brett

The stage lights glowed like solar flares, bleaching out the world of color—except for the sweat-slick wood beneath Brett's boots and the shiny black neck of his bass. Padlock rode at the end of "Forgotten Hills," and the crowd below was a pulsating, screaming organism. Smoke swirled around Link's legs as the guitarist ripped through his solo, head down, hair plastered to his forehead, a dark silhouette against the blinding spotlights. To Brett's right, Stephen pounded the drums with a smirking, manic precision—sticks a blur, sweat flying. And in the center of the stage... was Price. Brett just nailed it all down. His fingers moved with mindless precision, like muscle memory, carving a deep, resonant groove that held the madness together—a tectonic plate under an earthquake. Important? Technically, yes. Seen? Not quite. Perhaps a few heads bobbed vaguely in time at the front, but no one was watching the bassist tucked away next to Steven's kit. Brett had a thundering heartbeat that no one could hear.