The tips of his fingers gripping the neck of the electric guitar were flushed red. Every time he plucked a string, the vibration of the steel seeped through his fingernails and into his very bones. The distorted sound pouring from the amp filled the small room before bouncing off the walls and returning.

Then, the amp's power cut out. He clicked his tongue, rested the guitar on his knees, and looked up at the ceiling. The mold stains spreading like a map across the ceiling looked even more precarious today than usual.

Lately, nothing seemed to be going right. He had no talent, no money, yet a mountain of things to do. It was too late to take a different path now; he had dedicated his entire life to this place.

There's nowhere left to retreat now.