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... a gritty club pulsing with the city's raw undercurrent, its walls etched with chalk murals and peeling paint. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and sour beer, the crowd's electric hum seeping through the tattered curtain like a heartbeat. His guitar hung from the leather strap, its stars catching the flicker of a bare bulb, a tether to his mom's pride. The CityEcho interview had fanned their fire—Shatterpoint at thirty thousand listens, Flicker nearing nineteen thousand, The Static ...

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