Chapter 1: The Garage and the Ghost Track

The Kapiti surf rolled in steady outside, muted under the hum of Mark's fridge and the hiss of his own silence. The house wasn't much-a weathered box on stilts, sun-faded curtains, sand tracked through the hall-but it was his. Fifty years old, beard streaked grey, shoulders still broad under the ink. To most people, he was a ghost. A name from flyers and dusty crates in secondhand record stores.

To himself, he was just a man trying not to disappear.

He padded barefoot across the lounge, coffee mug in hand, and nudged open the garage door. The roller was down, but he'd reshaped the place until it barely resembled storage. Warm carpet underfoot. Black acoustic foam on the walls. Racks of guitars, some battered, some untouched for years. A loop station by the desk, laptop humming.

This was where he came when he couldn't sleep. Which was most nights.

Mark settled onto the stool, guitar heavy against his thigh. He tuned it by ear, slow and deliberate. No pressure, no deadline. Just play until something comes. Most days nothing did. The sound was there, but the feeling wasn't. He struck a low chord, let it hang. Hit the pedal. Added a harmony. Knocked a beat out with his knuckles on the body of the guitar. A thin skeleton of a song began to form-bare, searching.

He leaned closer to the mic, let a low hum slip out of his chest. That voice had once filled stadiums. Now it filled the garage, soft and raw, sinking into the loop.

It was almost music. Almost.

He set the guitar aside and scrolled through his old sound library, searching for texture. Percussion scraps, ambient hums, studio leftovers from another lifetime. His thumb paused on a folder he hadn't opened in years. The label was plain: Amber Vox - 07.

Mark froze.

For a long moment, he stared at it, mug cooling in his hand. Then he clicked.

Her voice spilled into the room-bright, unguarded, halfway through laughing at something he'd said. "...and you'll never guess what-" Cut. Another clip. "...Mark, stop making me laugh, I'm supposed to be-" Cut. Another. "...fuck, your voice in my ears... it's like-"

He stopped the playback with a jab of his finger. The garage was silent again, but the silence rang.

It had been years since he'd heard her like that. Years since it ended-badly. He thought he'd buried it under albums, under women who weren't her, under nights he didn't want to remember. But hearing Amber now was like ripping the sheet off a mirror he'd forgotten existed.

The guitar on his lap felt heavier.

He hovered over delete. It would be cleaner that way. No ghosts in the machine. But his thumb twitched, and instead he dragged the clip into the loop. Her voice slid over his hum, soft edges against his low tone, and suddenly it was like they were singing again.

The sound gutted him.

He leaned back, eyes closed, letting her laughter mix with his bassline. Memories came without asking: her body bent over the mic stand, his hand spread on her hip; the way she used to collapse against him when he'd taken her to pieces with nothing but tongue and voice. The way she had believed in him even when he didn't.

He shifted on the stool. The ache in his chest had a twin lower down, thickening between his legs. He hadn't touched himself to her in years. It felt wrong. It felt inevitable.

Mark pushed the guitar aside and shoved his jeans down to his thighs. His cock was heavy, uncut, thick in his grip. He spat into his palm and wrapped his fist around himself, stroking slowly, watching the vein swell as precum glossed the head.

The loop kept playing. His hum. Her laugh. Layered and circling.

He leaned back and groaned low, the sound rumbling out of his chest until it shook the panels on the wall. It blended with the track, accidental harmony, as if he was fucking the music itself. His hand pumped, rougher now, spit and slick spreading down his shaft. Each grunt he let out came from somewhere deep, the same place his voice used to come from on stage-heavy, undeniable.

Mark closed his eyes and imagined Amber's thighs clamped around his head. Imagined her voice breaking when his tongue worked her clit, the ridges and hum of it undoing her in seconds. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth like he could feel her taste again.

"Fuck..." The word scraped out low as he stroked faster, base to tip, squeezing precum out until it ran down over his fist. His other hand cupped his balls, heavy, full. He thought of her gasping, Don't stop, don't stop, and his body obeyed like she was still in the room.

The stool creaked under him as he bucked into his own grip. His chest heaved. He whispered her name once-Amber-and it nearly broke him.

He edged himself longer than he meant to, jaw clenched, humming ragged into the loop until it shook the room. When it finally hit, it was messy, violent, his cock jerking in his fist as hot ropes spilled across his stomach and chest. He groaned through his teeth, kept stroking, milking out more until it ran thick down his side. Cum dripped onto the carpet. He didn't care. He hadn't let go like this in years.

Mark slumped forward, panting, cock still twitching, his whole body humming from the release. Sweat cooled on his skin, the loop still running faint in the background, Amber's laugh haunting the edges.

He wiped his hand half-clean on his thigh and reached for his phone, needing a distraction. Scrolled, aimless, raw.

And there it was.

At the very top of his feed: Amber. A brand-new post.

A backstage mirror selfie-her hair wild, eyeliner sharp, guitar case propped against the wall. Caption: Soundcheck done. Doors at 8. Paraparaumu Tavern. Let's make some noise.

Mark's stomach dropped.

She was here. Not a ghost, not a memory. Down the road.

He stared at the photo, thumb hovering over "Message." Heart hammering, chest tight, cum still sticky on his stomach. Wondering if it was a coincidence. Wondering if it was fate.

He whispered her name again, low and reverent.

Amber.

Chapter 2: The Gig and the Greenroom

The Paraparaumu Tavern buzzed with cheap sound. Pints clinked, bass rumbled through tired speakers, bodies swayed shoulder to shoulder. Mark kept to the back, hood low, beer in hand he had no intention of drinking.

Then she came out.

Amber.

Her hair fell wild under the wash of LEDs, eyeliner sharp, guitar snug against her hip. She strummed once, leaned into the mic, and her eyes swept the crowd.

They found him.

Her fingers stalled. A string squealed wrong, ugly. She covered with a half-laugh, but her eyes didn't let go right away. Then she forced herself into the verse, voice strong again, though he saw the edges fray whenever her gaze skimmed his corner.

He should have left then. Instead he stayed rooted to the sticky carpet, every note carving through him.

When the set ended, applause and chatter roared up, and she ducked offstage quick, towel already in hand. Mark stayed where he was, stomach tight.

She re-emerged minutes later, damp with sweat, towel around her neck. She scanned the bar, found him again. Froze.

"Mark?" Her voice cracked sharp with disbelief. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He didn't move. "Watching."

She stood there, caught between anger and something softer. Then she hissed through her teeth, muttering, "I can't do this out here." She grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward the side door. "Come on. Before someone sees."

The greenroom was a closet dressed up as a backstage. Couch sunken to one side, crate serving as a table, bottles scattered. The muffled boom of the next act seeped through the walls.

Amber dropped the towel onto the couch and spun on him, arms crossed. "You don't just show up after all this time. You don't get to."

Mark leaned against the door, steady. "Guess I did."

Her laugh was sharp, defensive. "That's all you've got?"

"Not here to fight." His voice carried low, warm. The kind of tone that used to make her knees shake whether she wanted them to or not.

She bristled, uncrossing and recrossing her arms. "You think you can just talk like that and-"

"Looks like I can," he said, quiet but certain.

Her jaw worked. She turned away, muttering, "God, you're still the same." She grabbed a water bottle, twisted the cap back and forth. "This is a mistake. You're a mistake."

Mark stepped closer, not touching her. "If it was, you wouldn't have dragged me back here."

Amber froze at that. Her shoulders lifted, breath sharp. She turned slowly, eyes dark. "You arrogant-"

He cut her off gently. "Say you don't want me here. Say it, and I'll walk."

The silence swelled. Her mouth opened, closed. Instead she dropped the bottle onto the crate with a dull thud, muttering, "Fuck you."

Then she was on her knees.

It wasn't surrender. It was defiance, sharp and sudden, her way of proving she wasn't weak for him. Her hands yanked at his zipper, tugging denim down just enough to free him. His cock swung heavy into her palm, half-hard, thick, warm. She looked up at him with fire in her eyes, like daring him to stop her.

Mark's breath caught low in his chest. "Amber-"

"Don't talk." Her voice was ragged. Then her mouth opened, lips sliding around him, swallowing half his length in the first push.

His head hit the wall with a dull thud. A groan rumbled out of him, low and guttural, vibrating through the room. She worked him rough, spit already slicking her chin, one hand twisting at the base while she bobbed quick and messy.

"Fuck..." His fingers threaded in her hair, trembling. He didn't push. He held, grounding himself as her mouth dragged him toward the edge.

He warned her, voice breaking. "Gonna-"

She didn't pull away. She took it, throat flexing as he spilled, coughing once but swallowing it down like she'd meant to all along. She pulled back, wiping her mouth with the heel of her hand, laughing breathless. "Still easy to ruin you."

Mark caught her wrist, pulled her up, kissed her hard. She tasted of salt and whiskey and him. Her laugh died into a moan when he pressed her back onto the couch.

"My turn," he said, voice low, eyes locked.

She shook her head weakly. "Don't-"

He knelt anyway, spreading her thighs, tugging fabric aside. His mouth met her heat and she broke instantly, back arching.

"God-Mark..." Her hand clutched at his hair, knuckles white. He went slow at first, teasing, circling, then harder, lips sealing around her clit. His hum rolled through her, deep enough she gasped his name like a prayer.

"Please," she choked, hips rolling against his mouth.

He didn't stop until she came, thighs quivering, cry torn raw from her chest.

That was when it happened.

A shimmer. Faint, gold, tracing along his jawline where her thigh pressed, running down into his fingers where they gripped her skin. It flickered, alive for only a breath, then gone.

Amber's eyes widened. "Did you-"

Mark kissed the inside of her knee, then rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't answer.

They sat slumped side by side, clothes crooked, air thick with the aftertaste of sweat and sex.

Amber laughed once, shaky, trying to cover the tremor in her voice. "Feels like a bad idea."

"Probably is," Mark said.

She glanced at him, lips pressed tight, then looked away.

"Come back with me," he murmured. Not a question. An offering.

She chewed her lip. "Mark..."

"I'm not asking for forever," he said, voice steady. "Just tonight."

The silence stretched, then broke with her nod. Small, reluctant, inevitable.

Chapter 3: The Garage and the Return

The coast was dark by the time they reached his house. The tide had crept high, waves dragging heavy against the sand, the night air thick with salt. Amber stood in the doorway, arms folded, taking in the weathered boards and sun-faded curtains.

"Same house?" she asked.

Mark nodded. "Didn't see the point in leaving."

She stepped inside like she wasn't sure if she was trespassing. The place was simple-quiet lounge, scarred kitchen bench, the faint smell of coffee and sea. She glanced at him, about to speak, but he was already leading her down the short hall.

The garage door opened to warmth. Acoustic foam on the walls. Guitars lined in neat rows. Carpet laid soft underfoot. A loop station glowed on the bench.

Amber let out a low laugh, shaking her head. "You really turned it into a studio."

Mark leaned on the desk, watching her take it in. "Sometimes it was the only place I felt alive."

Her eyes flicked over the gear, then back to him. "You still chasing ghosts?"

His jaw flexed. He almost stayed quiet. But then-low, certain: "Sometimes the only way I remembered you were real was hearing your voice."

The words hung. Amber blinked, lips parting, a mix of hurt and heat rising in her face. She shook her head, but her body betrayed her-stepping closer, closing the space.

"Mark..."

He moved first, slow enough to stop if she wanted. She didn't. Their mouths crashed, teeth, tongue, years of ache dissolving into heat. She clutched at his hoodie, dragging him down. He groaned into her mouth, low and rough, and it shook her to her core.

By the time he peeled her jacket and shirt away, her bra straps sliding loose, she was already trembling.

He guided her to the long bench, pressing her forward until her chest hit the cushion, ass arched high. Her skirt bunched around her waist, panties tugged aside.

"Stay there," he murmured, voice so deep she shivered.

Then his mouth was on her.

Amber gasped, face buried in the cushion, as his tongue traced her folds. He licked her slow and deliberate, then spread lower, circling her asshole before plunging back up into her pussy.

"Oh my god-Mark-" Her voice broke. She clawed at the cushion, hips jerking back.

He alternated, licking, sucking, tongue pushing into both holes until she was sobbing into the fabric. His spit slicked everything, his hands spreading her cheeks wider as he buried himself in her, switching between them like worship.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Amber's thighs shook. "You're insane."

Mark groaned low into her, the vibration flooding her core. She came with a ragged cry, juices dripping down her thighs, his jaw slick with her mess.

For a second, light flickered faint under his skin-gold shimmering along his stubble, a faint glow tracing his fingers where they gripped her ass. Amber's blurred eyes caught it, gasped-but then it was gone.

She twisted, breathless, pulling him up by his hoodie. "Get inside me. Now."

He shoved his jeans down, cock thick and heavy, and pushed her onto her back across the bench. He slid into her pussy slow at first-deep, stretching her, both of them groaning.

"Fuck, Mark," she panted, nails digging his shoulders. "You still... feel so-"

He cut her off with a kiss, then drove harder. The wet slap of their bodies filled the garage, her moans sharp, his groans low. He fucked her deep, messy, claiming every inch. She writhed under him, clit grinding against his base each thrust until she came again, squirting across his stomach and soaking the carpet.

"Jesus, Amber-" He held her thighs wide and railed her through it, sweat dripping from his temples.

Her eyes were glassy, ruined. "More. Don't stop."

He pulled out, flipped her back down onto her knees, ass up again. Pressed the blunt head of his cock against her ass. She froze, then glanced back, eyes blazing. "Do it."

He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and pushed. Her gasp broke into a moan as he breached her, stretching her tight. He eased in slow, then deeper, until his hips pressed flush against her ass.

"Fuck, yes-" Amber's voice cracked, half pain, half bliss. "Fill me."

He started thrusting, slow at first, then harder, each slap loud, filthy. His hand gripped her hair, pulling her back, voice rough in her ear: "You take it better than anyone. Always did."

She moaned, body rocking back to meet him. "Mark-god-"

The glow erupted.

It started at his jaw, then spread down his neck, chest, arms. His cock inside her burned with light, every thrust sending golden pulses through her. The garage flickered-lights stuttering, loop station crackling with static, as if the room itself was alive.

Amber's eyes widened, but the shock dissolved into raw moans as the glow pulsed through her. She came hard, ass clenching around him, screaming his name.

Mark growled low, hips slamming, cock twitching deep inside her. "Take it-"

And he did. He filled her ass with thick, hot pulses, groaning into her shoulder as the glow blazed white-gold. Cum spilled deep, messy, dripping down her crack as he thrust through the aftershocks.

Amber collapsed forward, face pressed to the cushion, body trembling, glowing veins fading from her thighs. Mark stayed inside, chest heaving, one hand still on her hip like he couldn't let go.

They slumped together on the bench, sweat-slick and sticky, both catching their breath. The glow dimmed, but a faint shimmer lingered under his skin.

Amber turned her head, hair plastered to her cheek, eyes wide. "Mark... what the fuck was that?"

He stayed silent, still pulsing inside her, chest rising heavy.

"I saw it," she said, sitting up shakily. Cum leaked down her thigh, but she didn't notice. "I felt it. You were glowing-your whole body-what the fuck did you do to me?"

Mark reached out, caught her wrist, guided her hand to his chest. His skin was warm, still humming faint under her palm. "It wasn't just me." His voice was steady, low. "You felt it too."

Amber shook her head, laughing nervously. "No, no, that's-Jesus, that's not normal. People don't just light up when they cum. That's... that's insane."

Mark leaned closer, his lips at her ear. "Maybe it's real. Maybe it always was."

Before she could answer, the phone on his desk buzzed hard, screen glitching white. Both of them froze, staring. Black text burned across the blank:

You have been seen.

Road to Ascension - Apply Now.

Amber's breath hitched. "What the fuck..." She looked at him, eyes wide. "This is some sick joke. Tell me it's a joke."

Mark didn't look away from the words. His jaw was tight, his voice low but certain. "It's not a joke."

Amber backed a step, clutching her shirt to her chest. "Mark, this is crazy. This is-"

He finally turned to her, grey-blue eyes sharp, almost shining in the faint glow still under his skin. "No. This is the first thing that's made sense in years."

The silence stretched, the only sound the hiss of the tide beyond the walls.

Amber swallowed, torn between fear and hunger, her voice barely above a whisper. "So what now?"

Mark reached for the phone, thumb hovering over the link pulsing at the bottom of the screen. His voice was steady as stone.

"Now we answer."