(feat. raw excitement, a little chaos, and certified drummer worship) | Ammad’s POV

  Okay, okay, listen.

  This all started on a random-ass Thursday night. I wasn’t even supposed to be out.

  I had physics homework, a half-dead laptop, and a mild caffeine addiction to nurture, but I saw this flyer taped to the side of The Crater that said something like “REAPERAND / FONFOBIA / R.I.P. YOUR BRAIN” and I thought, yeah okay cool, let’s go ruin my hearing.

  Walked in solo, black hoodie, bag of chips in my backpack (don’t ask), and zero expectations from the other two bands that weren’t Fonfobia.

  And bro… BRO.

  From the first riff, I knew I was witnessing some kind of ritual of noise and fury.

  Like, the sound was chaos. But beautiful chaos.

  The kind of chaos that wants to bite you.

  Guitar shrieking like a banshee. Bass growling like it wants to punch your dad. And the drums?

  The drums.

  That drummer was going feral.

  Double kick like a machine gun. Cymbals crashing like thunder. Sticks spinning, arms flying. No metronome in hell could’ve kept up.

  It was pure, possessed, apocalyptic perfection.

  I was vibing so hard I nearly dropped my chips.

  And then I squinted a bit closer, ‘cause something about the drummer’s face… looked familiar?

  But like, weirdly familiar. Like, brain-glitch familiar.

  And then it hit me like a brick to the frontal lobe.

  “NO. FREAKING. WAY.”

  It was her.

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  Nickie Karklins.

  Karklins, the transfer girl from school.

  The quiet one. The study bug. The library cryptid with the weird sketching hobby.

  The one who once borrowed my pen and gave it back like… a week later.

  That Nickie.

  Up there onstage, she was unrecognizable: hair wild, eyeliner smudged, arms covered in sweat and raw power.

  It was like she’d ripped off the polite schoolgirl mask and underneath was a literal patron saint of snare abuse.

  I swear to god, I just stood there, mouth open, like I was witnessing the birth of a new religion.

  After the set, after my soul had been destroyed and reassembled, I scrambled toward the stage like gravity had changed its mind about me.

  And I saw her.

  Karklins.

  Standing there, blinking like she’d just been hit by a truck made of feedback and adrenaline.

  “Karklins!” I yelled, but she didn’t hear me.

  She looked kinda out of it, swaying a bit.

  Her bassist, this tall, dark-haired dude who looked like he eats existential dread for breakfast, leaned in and said something in her ear.

  Protective vibe. Very ‘touch her and you die’ energy.

  But then SHE LOOKED AT ME.

  And I was like, “HEY, KARKLINS!!! YOU ROCK!!!”

  (Smooth, I know. I’m a poet.)

  She blinked a few more times, looked right at me, and went,

  “Ahh!… thanks Hashmi,”

  SHE REMEMBERED MY NAME.

  And then the fist bump.

  I bumped it like I was swearing a sacred oath to the Church of the Metal Goddess.

  My whole soul lit up.

  And then Bass Doomguy (who was also oddly familiar) gently steered her away, hand on her shoulder, like she might collapse without it.

  I stood there frozen, still grinning like an idiot.

  I didn’t even care that my chips were gone.

  From that moment on, I wasn’t just a fan.

  I was a devotee.

  Nickie Karklins: librarian by day, drum-slaying immortal warlord by night.

  And I… Ammad freaking Hashmi… was gonna learn drums.

  Not just learn. Master.

  So help me Satan, I was gonna earn that fist bump again.