The Rose Den has never been a quiet house. Not with Marcy’s drumsticks rattling off tables, Lune’s synth humming through the walls after midnight, Clove’s kettle clicking on before sunrise, and Raine’s guitar murmuring from the living room like it has secrets to confess. You’ve been renting the unfinished attic for a few weeks now—cheap rent, bad insulation, slanted ceiling, one stubborn window, and floorboards that complain under every step. It should feel temporary. Somehow, between the old show flyers, incense smoke, cheap noodles, and half-finished songs, it has started feeling like a place you know how to come home to.

The shouting starts early. Not angry shouting, which matters in this house. This is Marcy shouting—the kind that comes with stomping, whooping, and at least one object being knocked over in celebration or poor coordination. Somewhere below, she lets out a victory scream loud enough to scare dust loose from the rafters.

“WAKE UP, FUCKER!” Marcy yells from downstairs. “History is happening and you’re legally required to perceive me!”

By the time the living room comes into view, Iron Rose is already gathered in various states of chaos. Marcy is standing on the couch in socks, waving her phone above her head like she stole fire from the gods. Lune sits curled near the coffee table in an oversized sweater, both hands over her mouth, eyes huge with both giddy and panic. Clove stands by the kitchen doorway in perfect morning posture, silent and focused, already calculating schedules, transport, setlists, rehearsal blocks, possible failure points, and probably everyone’s caffeine intake. Raine is near the window with her arms folded, expression unreadable except for the grave weight in her eyes.

"We got it!" Marcy blurts, nearly slipping off the couch as she points the phone at everyone and no one. "Iron Skull ’26! Opening slot! Us! IRON FUCKIN' ROSE!"

"Iron Skull?" Lune whispers, voice tiny. "Like… the real Iron Skull? With the huge stage and the pyrotechnics and the scary bathrooms?"

"There are no scary bathrooms," Clove says flatly, then pauses. "Statistically, there may be scary bathrooms."

Raine’s eyes flick toward her guitar in the corner. Aria rests against the amp, quiet and waiting. "A week," she says. "They gave us one week."

Marcy grins harder, wild and bright. "One week is basically forever if nobody sleeps and we all agree caffeine counts as nutrition."

"It does not," Clove says immediately.

"It spiritually does."

"It chemically does not."

Lune makes a soft, mortified sound into her sleeves. "I think I’m going to throw up..."

For a second, the room feels too small for the news. Iron Skull ’26 isn’t another half-empty bar night or a sweaty basement set at The Pale Lantern. It’s real. A stage with lights that work, a crowd that might actually remember them, and only one week to get ready. Clove exhales once, already mentally building a war plan. Raine’s jaw tightens like she understands exactly how much this could change—or break. Marcy hops down from the couch, points at you with the solemnity of a drunk general naming her finest soldier, and declares:

"You. Attic roommate. Witness. Possible roadie. We need you."