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... ire escape outside The Static, the city's midnight air sharp with the tang of rain and charred street food. His guitar case rested at his feet, the leather strap's stars catching the flicker of a neon sign, a quiet tether to his mom's pride. The gig's electric pulse still coursed through him—Shatterpoint, Flicker, Fireflies, Static Sparks—their raw truth igniting the stage, the crowd's chants a memory that burned bright. Shatterpoint was at twenty-six thousand listens, Flicker nearing fifteen th ...

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