His backpack creaks as it slides farther down his arm. His battered copy of Lord of the Flies feels heavier than it should. He hasn’t even opened it past Chapter Three. Too many patrols. Too many sleepless nights. Too many ghosts.

A burst of laughter cuts down the hall, and he turns his head just enough to see a couple of freshmen with gym duffle bags—new jocks—bounding toward the exit, bright-eyed and loud with end-of-year energy. Danny watches them with the dull envy of someone running on empty. Their biggest problem is probably what flavor slushie to get at the corner store. Must be nice.

The poster near the stairwell flutters again, this time catching his eye. Red and gold marker swirls leap off the white paper like they’re trying to be exciting:

TALENT SHOW: SIGN UP BY FRIDAY! EXTRA CREDIT FOR FINALISTS!

His eyes linger on that last part.

Extra credit.

He pushes off the locker, the motion sluggish like his limbs have forgotten how to move without resistance. For a second, he just stands there, chewing the inside of his cheek. What talent could he even use? Ghost powers? Yeah, sure, that’d go over well. “Watch me disappear!” Flash, bang, media coverage, government vans. Hard pass.

Singing? No. Dancing? Definitely not. Magic tricks? Too on the nose. Jazz band? Tucker tried that once, and it ended with a broken reed and a lot of very un-jazzy squeaking.

Danny runs a hand through his hair, staring at the sign like it might sprout a new option just for him. Something simple. Something safe. Something not embarrassing.

But all he gets is the flutter of the paper and the sudden weight of Mr. Lancer’s words pressing into his shoulders again. Mr. Lancer thinks he’s capable of more… of something. But what?

The final bell rings, long and shrill, slicing through the haze of Danny’s thoughts. Like a herd of released cattle, students pour into the hallway, their voices swelling into a chaotic tide of chatter, footsteps, and slamming lockers. Danny doesn’t move at first. He just watches them pass, the blur of motion making his head throb.

Eventually, he sighs and shifts the weight of his backpack onto both shoulders. The strap digs in, biting through the fabric of his hoodie. He checks the zipper, tugging it open and sifting through the mess inside. Crumpled homework—some of it done, some of it wishful thinking. Pencils, none sharpened. The granola bar (still intact, miracle of miracles). A sketchy schedule for patrol rotations with Sam and Tucker. And his thermos. Good. He pats it like a security blanket, then double-checks that his phone charger is still tangled at the bottom.

Satisfied enough, Danny zips the bag shut and slings it tighter across his shoulders. The hallway noise is already thinning, doors slamming open, kids spilling out into sunlight, into cars, into the weekend. Danny moves with them only for a moment, letting the crowd carry him through the exit, into the dull brightness outside.

The sky is the color of old denim—a pale, muted blue that promises rain and never delivers. The sun is somewhere behind the clouds, casting a watery sort of light over the cracked sidewalk and rusted bike racks.

The sunshine bounces off the pavement as he walks home, cutting through the alleys he’s come to know from his late nights flying around the city. It’s muscle memory by now—turn down the cracked sidewalk near Elm, cut behind the dry cleaners, duck under the loose chain-link fence. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

Home isn’t far, but it feels far enough today.

He climbs the porch steps, unlocks the front door with the key stashed behind the loose brick, and slips inside quietly. Jazz is out—college prep session or maybe a library shift—and his parents are still in the garage working on the Fenton RV. Good. He doesn’t need to explain anything, or talk, or pretend to be interested in what they’re doing to go anywhere.

Danny beelines to the kitchen, making a detour past the pantry. He grabs another granola bar—his third of the day—and an energy drink from the shelf, snapping the tab open with a hiss and a bitter fizz. The drink tastes like static and battery acid, but it jolts him back into motion. Sugar, caffeine, zeal. Maybe not that last one.

He slips down into the basement. The hum of fluorescent lights and the distant whir of machinery greets him before he even hits the bottom step.

The Fenton Lab always smells like burnt copper and ozone, the scent of half-finished inventions and things that probably shouldn't be glowing green. Wires snake across the floor in dangerous loops. One of the worktables is still covered in a half-dissected toaster fused with a ghost trap. His dad’s latest masterpiece. Probably.

But Danny doesn’t linger. He steps around the mess with practiced ease and heads straight to the far wall. The Ghost Portal looms there, pulsing with faint green light. Its metal shell is covered in stickers and scorch marks, its mouth a swirl of flickering energy that’s never stopped feeling just a little too alive.

He sets his drink down beside the console, punches in the activation code, and listens as the machinery groans to life. A wind kicks up from nowhere, pulling at the edges of his clothes and hair. Then the portal flares, a soft whoomph as the glow solidifies into a swirling gateway.

Danny hesitates only a second, just long enough to spare a quick glance towards the stairs. Then he transforms and steps through.

The colors invert and smear, weight and gravity bending sideways as ectoplasmic light envelopes him. Then—solid ground again. The cool, still air of the Ghost Zone greets him like an old friend.

It’s quieter here. Sound behaves differently, muffled and slow, like it has to swim through the air to be heard. Floating land masses drift lazily through an endless green expanse. Ghostly rivers twist above and below like glowing threads. He floats for a moment, letting himself adjust. His breath comes easier here. His heartbeat slows.

Clockwork’s lair is easy to find—he knows the way by instinct now. He follows a path of translucent gears suspended in space, hopping from one to the next until he reaches the great central spire.

It stretches up and down in equal measure, with no visible end either way. Inside, it’s all dim light and shifting gears, massive cogs turning with patient clicks and hums. Walls ripple with time screens—fractured glimpses of past and possible futures playing like silent films, each loop unfolding in its own corner of space.

Danny floats through the main hall, past clock faces bigger than trucks and long pendulums that slice through the air like gentle metronomes. The deeper he goes, the quieter it gets. The ambient chaos of the Ghost Zone fades behind him, replaced by the steady rhythm of machinery older than memory.

He finds Clockwork waiting near the center of the tower, perched calmly atop a thin platform of brass and glass. Today, they wear their child form, legs crossed and hands tucked into the sleeves of their robe. Their staff leans casually against their shoulder, topped with the ever-shifting hourglass that never empties.

“Hello, Daniel,” Clockwork says, voice calm. “You look tired.”

“Yeah, well. End of year burnout.” Danny huffs, floating closer and plopping down cross-legged in front of them. “I’m failing English and Mr. Lancer’s basically breathing down my neck.”

Clockwork tilts their head. “And yet you still made time to visit me.”

Danny gives a weak chuckle. “Yeah, well. It's quiet here. Less... everything.”

They nod. “It helps to have clarity.”

Clockwork gestures to a time screen beside them. The screen glows with a moment of Danny in his room, slouched over his desk, surrounded by a tangle of papers and Lord of the Flies laid open in front of him. His recently past self stares at a blank page, pencil unmoving. A slow blink, a sigh, and the unmistakable shuffle of defeat.

“You’ve been trying,” Clockwork says gently, watching the image play out. “But trying without focus leads only to frustration.”

Danny scrubs a hand down his face. “Tell me about it.”

Clockwork watches him for a moment longer, then waves a hand. The time screen dims and fades away, swallowed by the warm gloom of the tower. The rhythmic ticking of nearby gears fills the silence.

“It would do you good,” they say, aging into their adult form, “to stop running from what needs doing. You came here to escape, yes—but also to work. So: work.”

Danny sighs through his nose, the sound half a groan, half surrender. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Clockwork’s lips twitch—almost a smile. They reach for their staff, tapping its base lightly against the floor. A small platform floats out from the shadows, slotting itself neatly into place beside Danny. On it rests a low desk-like surface, a flickering lamp shaped like a melted candle, and a folded blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon and static.

Danny eyes it all with grudging appreciation. “…Thanks.”

“No one will disturb you here,” Clockwork says, already turning away, robes whispering like pages in a slow wind. “I’ll return to the timestream for now. Try not to overthink. Just begin.”

With that, they return to the screens hovering around them.

Left alone, Danny slumps forward and lets out a long, ragged breath. The space is dim but calm, the gear-hummed air cool against the back of his neck. Above him, a time screen flickers softly, showing nothing now but the slow orbit of some distant planet. Below, the platform hums gently beneath his legs, like it’s breathing with him.

He unzips his bag and starts to unpack: the battered copy of Lord of the Flies, his notes from class, a chewed pencil that probably belongs to Tucker, and the granola bar he didn’t eat after all. He spreads it all out on the low surface, then sits cross-legged, cracking the book open to where he left off.

His eyes trace the first few lines, sluggishly at first, but the quiet helps. Here, there are no footsteps. No bells. No clanging ghost alarms. Just the mechanical lull of time keeping itself.

He reads for a little, still not fully absorbing the words. His eyes track across the lines, one after another, but they don’t quite land. The sentences slide off his brain like water off a ducks back. He knows the words—they’re familiar, simple even—but the meaning behind them feels hazy, like trying to see through fogged-up goggles.

He blinks, goes back a paragraph and reads it again. A vague impression of boys on an island, something about a conch and shouting, maybe a fire. He’s not even sure if he just read it or remembered it from class.

His fingers tighten around the pencil as he makes a small, indecisive mark in the margin. It feels like busywork. Like faking it.

He glances up. Around him, the quiet hum of Clockwork’s tower ticks on without care. Massive gears rotate far above, some so slowly they seem frozen. Others spin like thoughts he can’t quite catch. The time screens flicker in their own rhythms, moments from a thousand lives dancing just out of reach—never loud, never demanding. Just there.

Danny exhales and rests his chin on his hand. His elbow sinks into the folded blanket on the desk, the softness grounding him a little. He taps his pencil once. Twice. The graphite leaves a faint smudge on the page.

His thoughts drift. He wonders what Sam and Tucker are doing. If Mr. Lancer is still at the school, grading papers and wondering why Danny Fenton can’t get his act together. If Phantom missed something while he was down here reading about kids going feral on an island.

He feels the weight of it all press in again—school, ghosts, responsibility, expectation—and for a moment, the page in front of him blurs.

Danny squeezes his eyes shut and scrubs a hand down his face.

“Okay. Focus,” he mutters to himself.

He lifts his head and looks at the book again. Slower this time. He doesn’t try to force the meaning, just lets the words come as they will.

He reads one sentence. Then another. A third.

Eventually, one of them sticks. Not all the way, but enough. He circles a phrase and underlines a line that sounds kind of important. He writes a small note in the margin.

Then he notices it.

Or the lack of it.

It’s too quiet.

The realization is slow, creeping in like a cold draft beneath a closed door. Danny looks up, brows knitting. The gears still turn. The time screens still flicker. But there’s something off.

No ticking.

For a place literally powered by the heartbeat of time, that silence is loud.

Danny straightens. The green glow of the Ghost Zone seeps dimly through the tall archways, but Clockwork’s tower no longer feels like a sanctuary.

He glances toward where Clockwork had stood—empty now. Their screens hover, frozen mid-loop. One shows a close-up of a pen rolling off a desk. Another flickers with static, then blinks into darkness.

Danny rises slowly, the book forgotten, tension coiling in his shoulders. His hand moves instinctively toward his thermos, even though he knows there’s nothing here he can blast. Not in Clockwork’s domain.

And then—

“Thinking loudly again, I see.”

Clockwork’s voice echoes softly from behind him, dry and faintly amused.

Danny jumps and spins around. “I almost had a heart attack!”

Clockwork floats down from an upper platform, now in their elder form—taller, cloaked in deep shadowed blue, eyes glowing with quiet mirth. Their hourglass pulses gently at the tip of their staff.

“I did. I simply arrived before you noticed.”

Danny huffs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You do that on purpose, don’t you?”

“Occasionally,” Clockwork admits, their voice like chimes caught in a breeze. “But only when you need a nudge.”

They tilt their head slightly, studying him. “You’re thinking of the Talent Show.”

Danny blinks. “Wait. How did you—?”

Clockwork lifts a brow.

Right. Time ghost. Of course.

Danny sighs and slumps back down onto the blanket. “Yeah, I saw the poster. Extra credit for finalists. I guess it’s my best shot at pulling my grade up before finals, but…”

He trails off, staring at his open book like it might offer a solution.

“I don’t know what I’d even do. I mean, I don’t exactly have a talent worth showing off.”

Clockwork descends to eye level, their tone carefully measured. “Perhaps you do not see it yet. But you are more than capable of impressing those who matter.”

Danny scoffs quietly. “Yeah, sure. Maybe if I could juggle fire or clone myself or—oh wait. Ghost powers. Right. Not really ‘school-friendly.’”

Clockwork leans on their staff, eyes half-lidded. “Then don’t use your powers.”

Danny raises an eyebrow. “...Gee, thanks. That helps.”

Clockwork smiles—just enough to be irritating.

“Daniel,” they say gently, “the fate of the future may well depend on your participation in this Talent Show.”

Danny freezes. “...Wait, seriously?”

Clockwork folds their hands behind their back. “Gravely.”

Danny pales. “Oh, man. Is this, like, butterfly effect stuff? If I don’t enter, is the world gonna end? Is Vlad gonna become President?”

Clockwork’s eyes gleam faintly.

Danny leans forward. “I knew something was up. Do I win something? Do I meet someone? Do I stop a ghost from—?”

Clockwork lifts one hand.

Danny falls silent.

The time ghost speaks, voice as calm as ever: “No. None of those things. I merely believe… that you need a win. A real one. Not as Phantom. As Danny Fenton.”

Danny blinks. “Why does the sake of the future rely so much of me passing my classes?!”

Clockwork’s expression softens. The great gears behind them shift with a low, echoing groan—like the tower itself is exhaling. They hover closer, their robes brushing softly against the glass-tiled floor as they move. When they speak again, their voice lowers just slightly—quieter, more intimate, like a secret being placed gently in Danny’s palm.

“Because the person you become,” they say, “the choices you make in these small, human moments… they ripple outward. You are more than a guardian between worlds, Daniel. You are also a boy, learning how to hold a life that feels too heavy, and still choosing not to drop it.”

Danny stares at them. “Whyyy?”

Clockwork gestures lazily toward one of the paused time screens, and it flickers back to life. On it, an older version of Danny stands in front of a classroom—chalk in one hand, a faint scar cutting through one eyebrow. He’s laughing, relaxed. Alive. The students laugh with him. It looks like nothing, really. Just a Tuesday.

Clockwork tilts their head. “That version of you? He finds balance. He survives the chaos because he remembers what it’s like to be grounded. To be seen. And that begins here.”

Danny looks away, throat tight. “So… if I don’t do the show, I don’t become him?”

Clockwork gives a light shrug. “There are many paths to many versions of yourself. But this one—the version where you take a risk without hiding behind a mask—is important.”

Danny frowns, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye. “I don’t even know what I’d do. I’m not good at anything.”

Clockwork hums.

“Not good,” they repeat, as though trying the words on their tongue and finding them inaccurate. “Or simply untested?”

Danny doesn’t answer.

The time ghost moves again, drifting toward a console of dials and levers. With a flick of their staff, one of the larger screens shifts. A flickering image takes its place: Sam, in her garage, fingers moving with absent ease across a dusty old keyboard. She isn’t smiling—she rarely does—but her shoulders are loose, her focus soft. Content.

The next screen shifts: Tucker bent over a mess of cables and wires, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Then another—Valerie, laughing in mid-drumroll, sticks flipping between her fingers. Wes, alone in his room, plucking low notes from a scratched-up bass guitar, his eyes closed.

Clockwork’s voice filters in behind the images. “It seems you surround yourself with rhythm and resonance. Have you not considered what such a gathering of sound might become?”

Danny tilts his head. “What, like a... garage band?”

Clockwork says nothing, but their smile deepens just slightly. The gears overhead shift again, casting long shadows across the floor in slow, spinning arcs.

Danny lets out a soft, incredulous breath. “You think I should enter the Talent Show with a band?”

“A group,” Clockwork corrects gently. “Multiple are better than one.”

Danny shakes his head, but there’s something warm flickering behind his ribs now—an ember. A thought he hasn’t let himself entertain since he was a kid pretending to be a rockstar in the bathroom mirror. “That’s... dumb,” he says half-heartedly.

But he’s already thinking about it.

Clockwork drifts closer, placing a gloved hand gently on his shoulder—no pressure, just a point of stillness in the swirl of time.

“You do not need to win,” they murmur. “You only need to try. And to let others try with you.”

Danny nods slowly, then catches himself and rolls his eyes. “Right. All part of the cosmic plan?”

Clockwork’s gaze softens.

“No, Daniel. This part is entirely up to you.”

—

The hallways of Casper High are already humming with anxious chatter and the clang of locker doors by the time Danny shuffles down the hallway toward Sam and Tucker. They are already waiting with half-finished coffees and varying levels of Monday-induced despair. 

Tucker’s fiddling with a portable sound mixer—probably one of his latest “projects”—while Sam idly flips through a paperback with a broken spine.

“Okay,” Danny says as he stops in front of them, rubbing his hands together like he’s about to try starting a fire. “So I have an idea. You’re gonna laugh.”

Sam looks up. “Is it ‘drop out and become cryptid cryptkeepers in the woods’? Because I’d be in.”

“No,” Danny says, fidgeting. “But close. I wanna start a band.”

Tucker perks up instantly. “Now we’re talking.” He slides his mixer aside and leans forward. “Like, an actual band? With, like, songs? That people hear?”

“That’s usually how bands work,” Danny says, a little sheepish.

Sam arches a brow, closing her book. “And let me guess. This is for the Talent Show?”

Danny shifts his weight. “Yes. No. Sort of. It’s… complicated.”

Tucker grins. “I’m in.”

Danny blinks. “Wait, really?”

“You kidding?” Tucker says, already reaching for his tablet. “I’ve dreamed of DJing a live show since middle school. I’ve got loops. I’ve got beats. I’ve got a fog machine in my closet. Let’s go.”

Sam crosses her arms, lips twitching. “I’ll play keys,” she says simply. “But I’m not wearing a costume.”

“No costumes,” Danny promises quickly.

“Unless they’re goth,” she adds.

He holds up his hands. “Obviously.”

Sam nods once, and that’s that.

Two down.

Danny turns on his heel and scans the hallway. Wes is exactly where he expects—by the vending machine, punching the side with an irritated grunt as it fails to deliver his root beer.

Danny hesitates.

This might be harder.

He jogs over anyway, posture casual. “Hey, Wes.”

Wes turns sharply like he’s been caught doing something illegal. His eyes narrow immediately. “What do you want, Fenton?”

Danny clears his throat. “I’m putting a band together for the Talent Show.”

Wes squints at him. “And why are you bringing it up to me?”

“We’ve already got a keyboardist and a sound guy. I heard you play bass?” Danny says.

Wes blinks. That clearly catches him off guard. “Uh—yeah. I mean. A little.”

“Cool,” Danny says. “We could use you.”

Wes crosses his arms. “Why?”

Danny stares. “I—uh…”

“What’s your angle, Fenton? Trying to distract me from the truth?” Wes leans closer, gaze sharp.

Danny gives him a look. “What truth?”

“That you’re him,” Wes says lowly. “Danny Phantom.”

Danny blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You think I don’t see it?” Wes mutters, jabbing a finger. “Same voice, same face, same hair! Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I think you need to cut back on conspiracy forums,” Danny deadpans.

Wes glares at him. “You glow sometimes!”

“I have sensitive skin!”

They’re in a standoff now. Several students walk by without a second glance—this is just how Danny and Wes are.

But then Danny exhales. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair, voice softening.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. But this isn’t about that.”

Wes’s expression flickers.

Danny meets his eyes. “I just… want to do something fun. So if you’re in, cool. If not, I’ll figure it out.”

He starts to turn away.

Wes shifts, awkward. “Wait.”

Danny pauses.

“…What kind of music?”

Danny smiles a little. “Whatever we make.”

There’s a beat. Then Wes mutters, “I’ll bring my bass.”

The bell rings.

A tidal wave of students pours into the hall as Danny ducks out of Wes’s general radius, heart still lightly pounding from the exchange. He hadn’t exactly expected that to work. But it did.

He finds Sam and Tucker again just outside the lunchroom, already mid-discussion about the logistics of transforming someone’s garage into something less fluorescent and despair-inducing.

“I’m thinking black curtains,” Tucker says. “Blackout the windows. Real moody lighting.”

“Fog machines,” Sam mutters, glancing over her shoulder. “But no lasers.”

“Lasers are awesome,” Tucker protests.

“Lasers are a fire code violation.”

Danny cuts in, raising a hand. “Can we talk people before we turn this into Phantom of the Food Court?”

Sam shrugs. “You got Wes, didn’t you?”

Danny nods, still surprised. “Yeah. Sort of. He’s in. Finish talking about this at lunch?”

The other two nod and go their separate ways.

Danny slips into first period with his mind still buzzing—less like a storm cloud, more like a fizzy bottle someone shook up and left uncapped. He actually feels like doing something for once. Not because he has to save the world, or his GPA, or whatever Clockwork meant with that cryptic future-self nonsense—but because… it might actually be fun.

He taps his pencil through the next two classes, humming stray melodies in the margins of his notes, the edges of chords forming in his brain like puzzle pieces waiting for sound. His foot bounces beneath the desk with leftover adrenaline. Enthusiasm. A dangerous feeling, honestly.

By the time the lunch bell rings, Danny practically rockets out of his seat, ignoring Mr. Falluca’s pointed look as he barrels into the hallway and makes a beeline for the cafeteria. A swirl of voices and cafeteria smells greets him—yeast rolls, industrial cheese, distant gym socks.

He grabs a chocolate milk and searches the crowd.

He spots Valerie first—sitting alone, halfway through a sandwich, earbuds in, scrolling on her phone. The light catches on the small charm at her wrist, a shape he knows is the head of a red mechanical dog. Her gear bracelet.

He hesitates. He’s never actually asked if she plays anything. They talk sometimes. They work well together under ghost-related duress. But outside of that… it’s all weird timing and missed beats.

Still, he heads her way.

She spots him before he’s halfway there. One earbud out, brow arched in wary curiosity.

“Hey,” Danny says, awkward but trying. “Mind if I—?”

She nods to the seat across from her. “Sure.”

He sits. There’s a pause where he picks at the label on his milk, trying to come up with a subtle way to ask do you maybe play an instrument and would you want to join a band without sounding like a total dork.

He doesn’t get the chance.

“So,” Valerie says, smirking just slightly, “I hear you’re starting a band.”

Danny freezes. “What? How did you—?”

She shrugs. “Word travels fast. Also, Dash tried to recruit me ten minutes ago.”

Danny nearly chokes. “Dash?”

“Apparently,” Valerie says, biting into her sandwich. “He said, and I quote, ‘Fenton’s starting some kind of band thing and needs someone with stage presence.’”

Danny drags a hand down his face. “Of course he did.”

Valerie chuckles. “Don’t worry. I asked him to read a page of sheet music, and he got stuck on the title.”

Danny blinks. “Wait—does that mean you play something?”

Valerie gives him a look. “Danny. I grew up rich. My dad wanted me to have multiple skills. I’ve been drumming since I was seven.”

That makes something warm bloom in his chest. “You’d be perfect,” he says, a little too quickly.

Valerie lifts an eyebrow, amused.

“I mean,” Danny adds, scrambling, “if you want. No pressure. We’re just trying this out.”

Valerie leans back, sipping her drink. “Honestly? Could be fun. I’ve got some stuff going on, but… yeah. I’m in. On one condition.”

Danny braces. “Name it.”

“If Dash is auditioning,” she says, smirking now, “I get to judge him.”

Danny grins, relief washing through him like cold water on a summer day. “Deal.”

Somewhere in the cafeteria, Tucker waves him over toward a table already claimed by Sam and a chaotic mess of notebook paper and hastily drawn stage diagrams.

Danny gives Valerie a quick nod, something light and bright in his chest as he stands to join the others.

Four down.

And apparently… one jock to go.

At this rate though, who all is trying to join this band? They aren’t popular by any means, but if Dash wants to join…

Danny exhales heavily. Maybe he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

The rest of the school day blurs, but in a golden, floaty way instead of the usual fog of dread. Danny moves from class to class with a kind of restless energy, like he’s been handed a map to something exciting and no one else knows it yet. He jots down stray lyrics in the margins of his science notes. Taps drum patterns on his thigh during history. Even math doesn’t feel completely soul-crushing.

But Dash?

Nowhere.

Not in the halls, not in gym, not at his usual table during last period study hall. It's… weird. Dash lives to make himself known. Usually with a shove or a smug insult or something involving flying pudding. Danny half-expects him to come swinging around a corner with sunglasses and an instrument borrowed from the music room, declaring himself the new band frontman. But nothing. Just silence.

By the time the final bell rings, Danny shrugs it off. If Dash wants in that badly, he’ll show up eventually. Or not. Either way, it’s out of Danny’s hands.

The walk home is warm and humming with late spring heat. The kind of afternoon where the sidewalk glows just faintly and the air smells like cut grass and someone grilling too far away to track down. His backpack feels lighter than it has in weeks, even with his textbooks rattling around. His sneakers scuff against the cracked pavement with a rhythm he didn’t realize he’d fallen into until he’s already halfway home.

By the time he hits the front step of FentonWorks, his hair is sticking up a little from the breeze and his fingers are still twitching from all the phantom air guitar he didn’t know he’d been doing.

The house looms like it always does—topped with blinking antennas and whirring ghost tech that groans when the wind picks up. One of the satellite dishes on the roof sags a little more today, casting a crooked shadow over the porch. A faint pulse of green hums from the lab’s lower windows, probably from whatever his parents are disassembling this time.

He opens the door. No ecto-explosions greet him. No stray ghosts. Just the warm, lived-in chaos of home.

Jazz’s voice echoes faintly from upstairs—probably mid-lecture on a call or buried in some psych textbook—and the scent of something vaguely edible wafts from the kitchen. There’s a dented cereal box on the counter and a cup of unfinished coffee beside the sink. Typical.

Danny drops his backpack by the stairs and flops onto the couch, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling. His heartbeat is calm now. No ghost alarms. No emergencies. Just the quiet, glowing buzz of a plan starting to come together.

And for once, he’s not saving the world.

Just trying to be in it.

—

It’s been a week. Well, almost.

It’s been five days since Danny said the words “Let’s start a band” out loud.

Since then, everything’s moved in that strange, uneven rhythm life tends to fall into when things might be going well—like the calm before a weird but not-unwelcome storm. Valerie came to practice twice already and absolutely shreds on the drums. Wes has opinions about everything, but he's good on bass and strangely punctual. Tucker’s experimenting with weird reverb effects that sound like a haunted arcade, and Sam—quietly, efficiently—has started writing chords and progressions like it’s second nature.

The school hallways are sluggish with late spring heat, the scent of pencil shavings and cafeteria pizza clinging to the air like a fog no one can escape. Danny’s walking to class, a little out of breath from laughing too hard at whatever Tucker just said. Sam veers off toward the language wing with a lazy wave, and Tucker turns down the hall toward computer lab.

Danny adjusts his bag and starts toward chemistry—only to stop short as a shadow looms in front of him.

Wham!

A hand slams against the locker beside his head.

Danny startles, nearly dropping his books. He turns—only to find himself pinned between the cold metal and a wall of varsity jacket.

The hallway noise fuzzes to static for a second. The air smells like cologne, cheap deodorant, and whatever haunted pre-workout powder Dash definitely takes too much of.

Danny blinks up at him. “Uh. Hi?”

Dash is frowning—not his usual smug I’m-about-to-steal-your-lunch-money look, but something more… conflicted. Intense. His jaw’s tight. His other hand grips the strap of his backpack like he might drop it or launch it across the hallway at any second.

He leans in a little, voice low. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

Danny stares. “What?”

“Your band,” Dash mutters, eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you ask me to join?”

Danny blinks. “You… cornered me to ask why I didn’t recruit you?”

Dash’s jaw works, like the words are physically hard to say. “You got Wes. Wes. You’d rather put him in your band than me?”

Danny opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Are you mad… because you didn’t get invited?”

Dash shoves off the locker, standing back just enough to pace one step, frustrated. “No. I mean—yes. I mean—I’m good, Fenton!”

Danny watches him, stunned. “Okay…”

“I can sing,” Dash blurts, glaring at the floor like it’s personally offended him. “And I’ve been taking guitar lessons since sixth grade. I know I’ve got stage presence.”

Danny blinks. “You what?”

Dash rolls his eyes like Danny is being the unreasonable one here, but there’s a flush climbing his neck that makes the cocky tilt of his shoulders look… off-balance. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, avoiding Danny’s gaze now. “I was at home, okay? Looking for my electric guitar. Thought it was in the attic, but my dad moved it. Took me a few days to find the amp cable.”

There’s a pause. The hallway bustles around them—someone drops a textbook, a loud locker slams shut, someone’s phone chirps with an ancient pop song. But here, in this weird little pocket of silence between lockers and half-lit fluorescents, Danny just stares.

He hadn’t even known Dash played guitar, let alone cared enough to tear apart his house for it.

“I looked for you,” Danny says finally, quietly. “The day I started asking people. You weren’t around. And, I mean, I didn’t think you’d want to be in a band with me, of all people.”

Dash looks up sharply at that. “Why not?”

Danny snorts. “Because you’ve spent the last three years shoving me into lockers?”

Dash shifts his weight, fidgety now. “Yeah, well. Maybe that was before I realized you were actually kind of… not a loser.” His voice trails off, rough at the edges, and for a second he looks anywhere but at Danny—up at the ceiling tiles, at the cracked corner of the locker, at his own shoes.

There’s something jittery about him. Not just the usual cocky bravado, but something nervous flickering just underneath. Like he’s waiting for Danny to laugh at him. Like this is costing him something.

Danny exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Look… the group’s already got a full lineup. But we’re planning to practice at my place tonight. You can come by and play something. If it clicks, maybe we’ll figure something out.”

Dash’s eyes snap to him. “Seriously?”

Danny nods. “But it’s not up to me. Valerie’s doing the judging.”

Something flickers behind Dash’s eyes—respect, maybe, or fear. “Valerie’s in the band?”

“Drums,” Danny says, and watches Dash’s eyebrows go way up.

“Holy—okay,” Dash mutters, then clears his throat. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.”

Danny arches a brow. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Dash straightens his jacket. “Tonight, then. I’ll bring my guitar.”

The sun dips low by the time everyone gathers at FentonWorks. The living room has been converted into a makeshift jam space—cables like vines across the floor, amps buzzing faintly, and a ghost shield deactivated with the twist of a dial so nobody accidentally fries their instruments. There’s a bowl of pretzels on the coffee table, already half-eaten, and Tucker’s fog machine whines softly in the corner like it’s desperate to be relevant.

Sam’s seated at the keyboard, tuning a synth patch with the kind of surgical precision that should scare people. Tucker's tangled in wires near his laptop and mixer, balancing a slice of pizza on one knee as he tweaks something labeled “etherwave distortion” in glowing green letters. Valerie sits cross-legged behind her drum kit—her own, not borrowed—resting a pair of sticks on her knees like twin threats.

Wes is on the couch, arms crossed, bass already in hand, plucking out a complicated run that nobody asked for but everyone pretends to appreciate.

Danny stands near the center, holding a microphone.

He’s gripping it like it might bite him.

The cable trails down to the mixer, looped carefully so he doesn’t trip, but he still feels like he might. His heart thumps too fast, palms a little sweaty, voice caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. This was his idea. His band. So why does he suddenly feel like he’s about to hurl into the amp?

Sam glances up from the keyboard, notices his hesitation. “You okay?”

Danny nods too quickly. “Yep. Totally. Fine.”

Valerie leans forward, sticks tapping out a quick staccato rhythm against her knee. “You sure? You look like someone told you we were livestreaming this to the entire school.”

“Please don’t joke about that,” Danny mutters.

Tucker, still fiddling with settings, doesn’t look up. “Dude, you’ll be great. You can sing.”

Danny laughs under his breath. “You’ve heard me sing like... two lines of a Weird Al cover.”

“Yeah, and it was hauntingly beautiful,” Tucker deadpans.

Sam rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Look, we’ve all heard you hum when you don’t know anyone’s listening. You’ve got tone. And control.”

Danny swallows and nods. Right. He can do this. It’s just one song. They’ve run it through twice already this week. No one here is trying to humiliate him. No ghosts to punch. Just... music.

“Okay,” he exhales slow and nods once more. “Sound check?”

“Check,” Sam calls without looking up.

“I got loops,” Tucker announces. “And fog, if we want it.”

“No fog,” Valerie says flatly.

“But—”

“No fog.”

Wes plucks a note with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor. “I’m good.”

Danny glances at the door.

Still no Dash.

It’s been almost twenty minutes since they said they’d start. He tries not to look at the time again—tries not to care—but it’s hard not to when he’s already told everyone Dash was showing up to audition. There’s a weird tension coiling under his ribs. Embarrassment? Disappointment? He’s not sure.

But he steps up to the mic, for real this time. Sam starts the chord progression—minor, soft, atmospheric—and Valerie counts in with two clicks of her sticks.

Then the rhythm kicks in. Bass, keys, the light hiss of the fog machine, finally doing its one job.

Danny opens his mouth—and sings.

It’s not perfect. It’s not polished. But it’s him. His voice is low and a little raw around the edges. There’s a tremble in the first few lines, but it fades fast, carried off in the tide of the melody. The others back him up instinctively, each adding their part like a scaffolding under his voice, and by the time they hit the bridge, it doesn’t sound like a practice anymore.

It sounds like a band.

Like, actually.

And it’s been less than a week!

The thought blows him away.

He doesn’t even notice the front door opening.

Doesn’t see Dash slip inside, awkwardly clutching a guitar case in one hand and a coiled amp cable in the other, eyes wide under his wind-tousled hair. He pauses in the entryway, struck dumb by the sound—Danny’s voice, clear and confident, rising over Valerie’s perfectly timed crash cymbals.

He stands there, frozen. The tension in his shoulders slackens slightly, expression shifting from something defensive to something softer. Quieter. Something like awe.

He doesn’t move until the song ends.

Danny lets the final note drift into silence, microphone still in hand, heart thudding in his chest. He looks up, exhaling, a faint smile just starting to form—

—and sees Dash.

Standing there.

Watching him like he’s just seen a ghost.

Danny blinks. “...Hey.”

Dash stares back. Then lifts a hand and mutters, “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Danny rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful.

Valerie leans back behind the drums and snorts. “You’re late.”

Dash, still staring at Danny, lifts his guitar case. “Yeah. But I brought backup.”

And something about the way he says it—like he means it—makes Danny’s stomach flip.

In a good way.

Dash drops his bag near the wall and crouches to unzip his guitar case, movements sharper than usual—controlled, maybe, but tight around the edges. He pulls out a dark blue electric guitar, glossy under the dim overheads, and starts plugging in cables with mechanical precision. His amp hums to life with a low buzz, and he gives the volume knob a tentative twist, eyes flicking toward Tucker’s mixer as if he’s waiting to be told to stop.

No one tells him anything.

The others tune idly, fingers on frets, half-focused. But they’re all watching. 

Not obviously. Not rudely. But definitely watching.

Sam rests her hands on the keyboard without playing a note, her gaze sharp behind her bangs. Valerie twirls a drumstick once, twice, and then lets it rest lightly against her shoulder. Tucker pretends to be adjusting EQ settings, but he’s not typing. Even Wes has stopped his overachieving bass noodling, one eyebrow arched so high it might launch off his forehead.

Dash doesn’t seem to notice. 

But Danny can feel it—the weight of the room pulling inward, the cautious gravity that forms when someone you used to avoid suddenly walks into your space and says, hey, trust me.

He swallows, unsure whether to say something or wait it out as he takes a seat on the edge of the couch, fingers loose around the microphone in his lap. While Dash was invited, no one can pretend that they’ve forgotten the last three years of shoulder-checks, hallway smack-talk, and the dark, cramped space of the inside of a locker.

Even though he meant it when he invited the jock, there’s still a knot in his stomach now, curling tighter as Dash finishes tuning and glances up.

Their eyes meet.

Dash freezes for a second. His fingers twitch near the strings. His shoulders tighten. His confident posture falters. And Danny realizes—Dash is nervous.

It surprises the half-ghost hero.

Not because Dash doesn’t deserve a little nerves—he does—but because he never expected to see it on him. Not in his posture. Not in his clenched jaw and darting eyes. Not in the way he shifts from foot to foot, suddenly too tall for the room and not sure where to put his hands.

Danny gives him the smallest nod he can manage.

It’s not much. But it’s… something.

Dash exhales through his nose and slings the guitar strap over his shoulder. “Okay,” he mutters, mostly to the floor. “What do you want me to play?”

“Something you like,” Sam says evenly from the keys. “We’re not asking for scales.”

Tucker chimes in. “But bonus points if you don’t play Wonderwall.”

Dash snorts once, quietly, almost grateful. Then he shifts his grip on the guitar and steps forward, hands settling on the strings like it’s the only place they ever belong.

The amp hums low. The others fall still again.

Danny doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Dash plays the first note.

And just like that, something clicks.

It’s not flashy. Not some arena-rock solo or hyper-polished show-off piece. It’s something else—bluesy, grounded, real. A slow build with enough bite in the bends to catch Danny’s attention and enough subtle control to prove this isn’t just high school ego.

It’s the kind of playing you don’t expect from a linebacker. Or a guy who used to staple “Kick Me” signs to freshmen.

Danny leans forward, arms braced on his knees. Watching. Listening.

And—okay. He’s good.

Not just technically competent, but tight, clean, and practiced. The kind of good that comes from hours alone in a room with nobody listening but the ceiling. His fingers fly over the strings with ease, the chords minor and a little raw—there’s tension in them, and soul, and something just beneath the surface that Danny doesn’t expect.

Something honest.

Dash doesn’t sing, not yet. But he plays, and for the next minute and a half, the room stays silent except for him and the way he shoves something unspoken through his fingertips and into the air. Something frustrated. Fierce. Proud.

Danny watches him, head tilted slightly, heart pounding in a new rhythm now. Not nervous. Not afraid.

Curious.

When the final chord rings out, no one claps. They just... sit there for a second. Letting it settle. The silence after feels heavy in a different way now—less suspicion, more surprise.

Danny meets Valerie’s gaze first. She doesn’t smile, but she nods once. Slow. Measured.

Tucker’s already poking at his mixer. “That was sick,” he mutters. “Gonna need to loop that bend later.”

Sam tilts her head, appraising. “We could use a guitar.”

Wes mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

Danny looks back at Dash—who still stands there, stiff and awkward, gripping the neck of his guitar like it might be yanked from his hands at any second.

“Guess we’ll need a bigger couch,” Danny says.

Dash blinks. “Wait. That’s it?”

Danny shrugs. “Yeah. That’s it.”

And this time, Dash doesn’t smile exactly, but something about him relaxes. Like he’s finally let go of a breath he’s been holding.

Dash drops his gaze for a second, mouth twitching like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. His hand slides down the neck of the guitar in a slow, almost reverent motion, and for the first time since he stepped through the door, he doesn’t look like he’s about to bolt.

He looks like he belongs here.

“You guys really serious about this band thing?” he asks, half-joking, but there’s an edge to the question—like he’s still waiting for the punchline.

Valerie snorts from the drums. “You think I haul this kit up and down three flights of stairs for fun?”

“We made a logo,” Tucker adds, very helpfully.

“No, you made a logo,” Sam corrects. “We haven’t agreed to it yet.”

“It glows in the dark,” Tucker mutters. “You people have no vision.”

“Point is,” Danny says, stepping forward and offering Dash a lopsided grin, “we’re doing this. For real. As long as it doesn’t implode by the end of the month.”

Dash raises an eyebrow. “And I’m... part of that?”

“Unless you’re planning to vanish in the middle of our first gig.” Danny replies.

“I make no promises,” Dash says automatically, then pauses. “But nah. I’m in.”

There’s a collective breath—not quite a cheer, not yet, but something close. A quiet, shared sense of okay, maybe this is actually happening. Tucker taps a quick beat into his synth pad; Valerie spins one of her drumsticks and thunks it against a tom. Even Wes, whose default setting seems to be grudgingly superior, lifts his brows and gives a single approving nod.

Danny doesn’t even try to hide the relief blooming in his chest.

“So,” Sam says, fingers ghosting over her keyboard again. “We running another song?”

Dash adjusts his strap. “You’ve got charts?”

Valerie cracks her knuckles over the snare. “We’ve got instincts.”

Danny steps back toward the mic, heart racing for a completely different reason now. He’s grinning as he clicks the mic back on and glances at Dash.

“Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Dash flashes a brief, lopsided smirk.

“Try me.”

—

The following Monday, Danny walks into Mr. Lancer’s classroom with the same wary dread most students reserve for pop quizzes and surprise public speaking. His backpack sags heavily over one shoulder, weighed down with a half-broken binder, two song notebooks, and exactly zero emotional preparation for today’s lesson on Lord of the Flies.

The room smells like dry-erase markers and week-old burnt popcorn. Someone in the back row is already asleep, forehead pressed against an open textbook like a defeated knight on a literary battlefield. The overhead lights flicker slightly, lending everything a tired, washed-out hue that matches Danny’s current brain state. He sinks into his desk just as Mr. Lancer closes the door with a decisive click.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Lancer intones, half-grimace, half-grin. “Today, we will talk about our descent into the sun-scorched, bloodstained metaphor that is William Golding’s Lord of the Flies.”

A few students groan. One actually mutters, “Why?” and gets a sharp look for it.

Danny, however, doesn’t register much of this. He’s still trying to will his heart rate down from the memory of Dash’s guitar solo. Of the way the band—his band—actually worked. That moment when everything clicked together like a puzzle and stayed clicked.

He’s so caught in it that he almost misses what Lancer says next:

“Before we begin ripping apart the innocence of man and examining the brutal truths of unchecked adolescent savagery”—he says this with the glee of someone who’s been waiting all weekend to say exactly that—“I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge something far less apocalyptic.”

Mr. Lancer turns toward the whiteboard and, without looking, gestures vaguely in Danny’s direction.

“Mr. Fenton. I’ve heard a whisper or two about the little ensemble you’ve assembled for the talent show.”

Danny startles. “Uh…”

Mr. Lancer gives him a rare look that lands somewhere between appraisal and actual approval. “I have to admit, I’m intrigued. It’s not every year we get a band formed after the flyers go up.”

Danny blinks. “We, uh... yeah. We’ve been practicing.”

“I’d imagine so,” Lancer replies. “I’m looking forward to hearing what you all put together. Just... don’t burn the stage down.”

The class shifts, suddenly more interested than they were two minutes ago. Murmurs rise like steam, whispers passing from desk to desk—Danny Fenton’s in the talent show? With a band? Who else is in it? Is that what Dash was talking about? Wasn’t that a joke? The kinds of questions that swirl and stick.

Paulina turns in her seat, brows arched. “Wait, you’re actually performing?”

Danny shrinks a little in his chair. “...Yeah.”

Kwan’s eyes go wide. “Dude. Nice.”

Danny sinks lower.

And just like that, the room shifts focus. One by one, people start talking about their ideas. Skits and song covers, lip syncs, magic tricks. There’s energy in the air now—not for Lord of the Flies, sorry Mr. Lancer—but for the rising tide of the upcoming show. And it’s weird.

Because for once, Danny’s not watching from the sidelines.

He’s in it.

And that... is terrifying.

As Mr. Lancer begins his lecture about civilization vs. savagery and the symbolic death of Piggy, Danny tunes out, just for a second. His fingers trace idle shapes on his desk, imaginary chords he doesn’t know the names for yet. He thinks of Valerie’s perfect timing. Sam’s razor-sharp harmonies. Tucker’s lightshow ideas. Dash’s quiet concentration.

It doesn’t feel like a fluke anymore.

It feels real.

He breathes in. Exhales slow.

Okay. 

Talent show or not, they’re going to make some noise.

—

The week of the talent show dawns cold and gray, the kind of weather that makes the days drag and gives headaches to those sensitive to the change in barometric pressure. The air smells like petrichor and is thick with anticipation, the kind of half-buzzed tension that comes right before a big artist comes to town.

Danny wakes up to the sound of rain ticking against his window like a nervous metronome. He lies there for a minute, staring at the ceiling. His room is still dark despite the time—dim light pushing through the clouds like it’s too tired to try.

He rolls out of bed, muscles stiff from last night’s patrol, and goes through the motions on autopilot: teeth, clothes, shoes, backpack. The whole time, his mind hums. Not with nerves exactly—though those are there, coiled low in his gut like a storm waiting to hit—but with noise. Lyrics. Riffs. The setlist. The fact that they are going to be the last group to do anything for the talent show.

By the time he reaches school, the sidewalks are slick with rain and the sky hangs low, heavy and wet and the same color as the lockers. The halls buzz in a way that isn’t normal—not loud, not rowdy, but alive. Like everyone knows something’s coming.

It’s weird.

Weirder still is how quietly things have been going.

No lockers slammed shut just to startle him. No cruel nicknames whispered too loud to ignore. Even the A-listers, once allergic to even breathing the same air as Danny Fenton, have given him a wide berth lately—some even nod in greeting, like he’s been promoted to minor footnote instead of social pariah.

He knows why.

Dash.

It’s not like they’re best friends now. That’s not how any of this works. But Dash doesn’t shoulder-check him in the hallway anymore. Doesn’t pretend not to hear when he’s asked a question. Doesn’t correct him in that smug, alpha tone he used to use for anything that wasn’t football or himself.

In fact, Dash listens. Not a lot. Not all the time. But enough. Enough that it shows.

Practicing every other day has done something strange to the group. Sam still gives Dash the side-eye whenever he starts to get too confident, and Valerie keeps her emotional arms crossed even when she’s not physically doing it. Tucker gripes about him constantly, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Wes pretends not to care—but he’s stopped asking why Dash is still hanging around, and that says a lot.

But there is one thing they aren’t saying out loud. And it’s obvious: they don’t think Dash will stick around past the show. 

And maybe they’re right.

But Danny

Danny’s not sure.

He sees the way Dash tunes his guitar like it’s a ritual, not a chore. The way he stays after everyone else leaves, half-hoping someone will ask him to run through the chorus one more time. The way he leans forward when Sam sings her harmony in the second verse, like he’s hearing something new every time.

He’s different.

Not perfect. Not even close. But not faking it, either.

Now, in third period, Danny watches rain snake down the windows and listens with half an ear as Mr. Lancer lectures on modernist literature. His notebook is open, but he’s not writing anything. Just tapping his pen against the margin in a rhythm that matches their opening track.

He glances across the room.

Dash sits near the back, hoodie slightly damp at the shoulders, head bent over a textbook he’s actually reading. A week ago, he’d made a joke about learning his parts better than his lines in the school play sophomore year. Everyone had laughed.

And yet… he stayed.

After rehearsal last night, when everyone else had left, Dash lingered again. Helped Danny coil cords and roll up the rugs Sam insisted on bringing for acoustic dampening. They didn’t talk much. Just worked. But when Danny had asked, ‘Same time tomorrow?’ Dash had nodded without hesitation.

It stuck with him.

So now, as Mr. Lancer goes off on a tangent about unreliable narrators and the crumbling of traditional narrative structure, Danny finds himself wondering: what happens if Dash doesn’t leave?

What if this doesn’t end?

What if this isn’t just a fluke?

At lunch, the group clusters at their usual table by the vending machines. A cardboard pizza box is balanced precariously on Tucker’s lap while he codes something that keeps playing the band’s intro on loop. Sam is arguing with Valerie about wardrobe choices for the show—Val wants sharp and clean, Sam wants dramatic and slightly occult. Wes is saying nothing, but he’s already made a spreadsheet with color options that match their temporary logo.

Dash shows up late, tray in one hand, guitar pick spinning slowly in the other. He drops into the open seat next to Danny like it’s always been his.

No one blinks.

No one says a thing.

No one even bothers to look his way.

And that, somehow, feels bigger than anything.

Danny glances up from his water bottle just in time to catch Dash looking at him.

It’s not the usual glance, either. Not the casual once-over or the bored kind of look you give someone you’re half-listening to. It’s focused. Intent. A little too direct to be comfortable, but not in a bad way. Like Dash is trying to memorize something about his face and hasn’t quite realized he’s being obvious about it.

Their eyes meet.

Dash tilts his head slightly, leans in, and says—quietly, just for Danny—“You know, you kinda killed it last night.”

Danny blinks. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

Dash grins—crooked, easy, the kind of smile that’s always looked better on someone who doesn’t use it as a weapon. He twirls the pick again between his fingers, then flicks it lightly at Danny's tray. It pings off the edge and lands next to Danny’s apple.

“Keep it,” Dash says, voice low. “Might be lucky.”

Danny chuckles awkwardly and picks up the pick like it’s just another piece of plastic, not something Dash apparently gave him. “I mean… thanks? I guess?”

Dash shrugs and leans back, popping a fry into his mouth. He doesn’t say anything else, but he keeps looking at Danny—sideways glances now, short but unmistakable. Like he’s waiting for something.

Danny, for his part, just takes a bite of his apple and tries to remember if they agreed on where to meet for rehearsal this evening or not.

After school, the clouds still hang heavy and low, dragging long shadows across the sidewalks as the rain evaporates to a mist. The air is still damp, saturated with the kind of luke-warmth that settles into bones chilly, and the trees drip rhythmically in the background, their branches weighed down and shivering.

Danny walks between Sam and Tucker, backpack slung over one shoulder, boots squeaking faintly with each step.

“So…” Tucker starts, drawing the word out like he’s waiting for the right moment to pounce, “Dash.”

Danny looks up. “What?”

Sam raises an eyebrow, pulling her hoodie tighter around her shoulders. “You seriously don’t know what we’re talking about?”

“I mean,” Danny frowns, brow furrowing, “we were just eating lunch—”

“Exactly,” Tucker cuts in. “Dash sat next to you.”

“He’s been doing that.”

“Yeah, but today he flirted.”

Danny stops short, feet skidding a little on the wet sidewalk. “Wait—what?”

Sam sighs. “The pick, Danny. The smile. The whole ‘keep it, might be lucky’ thing? That was flirting.”

Danny’s ears go red. “N-no, he was just being nice—he gave me a pick! People give picks to each other all the time, that’s, like, normal band stuff.”

Tucker snorts. “Not like that. He basically gave you a token. If this were a medieval court, that pick would be a favor tied to your sword before battle.”

“It’s not—he’s not—” Danny flounders, the words getting tangled in his mouth like seaweed. “Dash isn’t into me.”

“Danny,” Sam says gently, her expression unreadable, “he’s been orbiting you for weeks. He shows up to rehearsal early, leaves late, and only ever smiles like that at you. You don’t notice because you’re too busy being confused whenever someone like him treats you like a person.”

pavement splashes with every stride.

“I thought… I dunno,” he mutters, eyes on the sidewalk. “I thought maybe he just didn’t hate me anymore.”

Tucker gives him a look, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Dude. He definitely doesn’t hate you.”

“He might even like you,” Sam adds, not quite teasing, not quite serious. “And I’m not talking about as a friend.”

Danny nearly trips on the curb.

“Okay, can we not talk about this in the middle of the street?” he hisses, cheeks now glowing pink. “He’s Dash. He dated Paulina.”

“And now he’s giving you guitar picks and heart eyes,” Tucker says cheerfully. “People contain multitudes.”

Danny groans into his sleeve.

They turn down his street, the porch lights of home already flickering on in the gloom. A familiar shape waits at the end of the walkway—Jazz, reading a psychology textbook under an umbrella like she’s tailgating a lecture.

Danny doesn't even register her presence. His head is spinning, and the pick feels suddenly heavy in his pocket. Like it might burn a hole through the fabric if he thinks about it too hard.

Flirting? Really?

They say goodbye at the porch, Sam shooting him a knowing look and Tucker flashing a thumbs-up that makes Danny want to vanish into the mist entirely.

Jazz greets him with a soft, “Hey, Danny,” as he climbs the steps, but he doesn’t really hear her. Not even after he’s already inside, shoes kicked off and gym bag dumped in the hallway like ballast he’s too tired to carry.

His thoughts are too loud. Too sharp around the edges.

Dash. The pick. Flirting.

He trudges up the stairs like someone marching toward a sentencing, not a bedroom. Behind him, Jazz closes her book with a thump and follows.

He doesn’t realize she’s on his heels until he pushes open his door and flops face-first onto the bed with a groan. The mattress creaks under his weight. His backpack slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a muffled thud.

Jazz knocks lightly, but doesn’t wait for permission to come in. She perches on the edge of his desk chair, turning it to face him with a slow spin. “So,” she says, voice calm and even, “what’s going on with you?”

Danny doesn’t answer right away. Just lies there, half-buried in a pillow, willing the heat in his face to go away. Eventually, he mumbles, “It’s Dash.”

There’s a beat of silence. The rain patters against the window again, soft now, like it's listening in.

Jazz doesn’t react the way he expects. No sharp inhale. No sarcastic retort. Just a quiet, “Okay. What about him?”

Danny flips over onto his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling like the answers might form there in condensation. “I think… I think he might be flirting with me.”

Jazz blinks. That one surprises her, just for a second. She doesn’t hide it fast enough.

Danny groans and covers his face with his hands. “Great. You didn’t know either.”

“I knew he was in the band,” Jazz says carefully, leaning back in the chair. “I even figured you two weren’t enemies anymore. But flirting? No. I didn’t see that coming.”

He peeks at her through his fingers. “Am I crazy?”

She gives him a sympathetic look. “No. Just maybe… a little dense.”

Danny flops his arm across his eyes. “That’s what Sam said.”

“She’s not wrong,” Jazz replies, her tone softer now, like she’s trying to be gentle with him. “Looking back, yeah—I should have noticed. He waits for you after rehearsal. He actually talks to you now. And that thing you mentioned with the guitar pick? That’s basically the teenage boy version of handing someone a rose and asking them to think of you during battle.”

Danny groans again. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true.” Jazz lets the chair spin halfway and back again, idly watching his shelves. “Do you like him?”

“I don’t know,” Danny blurts, exasperated. “I didn’t think I did. I mean, he used to make my life miserable! But now… he’s different. Or maybe I’m different. Or maybe we both are. He listens. He tries. And sometimes when he smiles at me I feel like I’ve walked into the wrong timeline or something.”

Jazz smiles, soft around the edges. “Well, that sounds like a crush.”

Danny sits up suddenly, hair sticking out in all directions, looking vaguely horrified. “Jazz!”

“I’m just saying,” she says, hands raised in mock surrender. “You don’t have to do anything about it. But maybe… think about how you feel when he’s around. When he’s not around. When he gives you dumb little guitar picks.”

Danny touches his pocket again without meaning to. He can feel the shape of it pressing into his leg like a secret.

He exhales. “I hate how complicated this is.”

Jazz shrugs, standing up and heading toward the door. “That’s adolescence for you. Half heartbreak, half emotional whiplash.”

She pauses with her hand on the frame. “For what it’s worth? You deserve someone who sees you. Maybe Dash didn’t use to… but maybe now he does.”

Danny doesn’t say anything. Just nods, slow and small.

She leaves the room without another word, shutting the door behind her with a click that somehow feels more like punctuation than silence.

Danny lies back down, eyes on the ceiling, rain drumming steadily now outside his window. He pulls the pick from his pocket and holds it up. The faint light from the window gives it a dull, pewter sheen, like a coin held too long in a pocket. He flips it once—just a twitch of his fingers—and catches it without thinking. It’s nothing special—just plastic, a little worn at the edges from when Dash has used it to strum on his guitar’s strings.

He doesn’t know how to feel.

Which is, in itself, a feeling. A knot of tangled things, tight in his chest and hot in his throat. His stomach twists in slow, lazy loops that make it hard to tell whether he’s anxious or just… scared.

He wishes he could be excited. Wishes this felt like a rom-com moment, the kind of story that ends with a first kiss and the camera pulling back to music. But all he can think about is everything that came before.

Dash used to shove him into lockers. Used to laugh when Danny dropped his books. Used to throw Tucker’s lunch tray on the floor and call Sam a witch, like it was an insult, not a compliment.

And yeah, used to—that’s the important part, right? People grow. People change. Danny of all people knows how fast life can pivot. But memory sticks. Especially the bad ones.

And the truth is, Dash wasn’t always a jerk.

Back before middle school got mean, before football and hormones and all the invisible pressure to be cool, Dash had been his friend. Not best-friend-tier, but he was. They’d traded Pokémon cards. They’d had sleepovers with sugary cereal and late-night movies. Built snow forts in Tucker’s yard and stayed up making ghost stories in tents that always collapsed halfway through the night.

Danny remembers that version of Dash, too. The one who called him “Danno” and never meant it mean. The one who gave him half a Twizzler without being asked. He doesn’t know which version is the real one. Or if maybe both of them are. People do contain multitudes, like Tucker said.

The anxiety bubbles up, slow and creeping.

But it’s not just that. He’s never been in a relationship before. Not unless you count awkward middle school dances or crushes that fizzled the moment someone else smiled at them first. He’s never kissed anyone. Never held hands…

And it’s not because he didn’t want to.

He’s thought about holding Sam’s hand. He’s thought about holding Val’s. But he’s never made past the part of friends. The idea of trying always felt like walking into a spotlight with no script. Everyone looking. Everyone expecting something he doesn’t know how to give.

And now?

Now Dash might like him?

The idea makes his heart flutter and his chest ache at the same time. He wants to want it. Wants to believe this could be a good thing. That maybe, just maybe, something soft could come out of all the chaos.

But a part of him whispers: What if it’s a trick? What if it’s a joke? What if you say yes and everyone laughs?

He hates that part. It sounds like too many years of too many people treating him like he was nothing but a target. It sounds like ghosts, but not the kind he can punch.

Danny sits up slowly, pushing a hand through his hair. His room feels too small, the air thick with memory. His pulse drums steady behind his eyes.

He looks down at the pick again.

It’s still just plastic. Still light enough to forget in a pocket. But right now it feels heavier than it has any right to be.

He tucks it into the drawer beside his bed—not to hide it, but just to breathe easier.

Then he lies back down, arm flung over his eyes again, and lets himself sit in the middle of the confusion.

What is he supposed to do?

Danny exhales, a long, slow breath that deflates his chest like a tire losing air. His muscles unknot just a little, tension leaking out in slow drips instead of a burst. The ceiling stares back at him, still mottled and gray, still quiet except for the steady murmur of rain.

He decides, finally, to just let it be.

He’s got too much else on his plate. Too many moving parts. Finals are two weeks from now, the talent show is breathing down their necks, and he’s still got ghosts showing up like clockwork every other night, trashing half the park or rattling through the school vents. His entire life is a blender with the lid half-on, and throwing his feelings into that mix sounds like a recipe for disaster.

So for now—he won’t think about it.

Not too hard, anyway.

Dash will be at rehearsal tomorrow. That’s enough. They’ll run the set, argue over tempo, laugh when Wes trips over the amp cable again. Dash will probably smile at him. Maybe offer another pick. Maybe not. And Danny will smile back. Or not. And that’ll be fine. That should be fine.

He doesn’t have to do anything.

Not until he wants to.

The thought calms something in him—loosens a screw he didn’t know was tightened too far. He lets himself melt into the mattress again, arm still over his face, legs splayed like a puppet with the strings cut. he confusion is still there, sure, but it’s manageable. Contained.

He’ll deal with it later.

—

The day of the talent show breaks clear and cold, like the sky itself is holding its breath. The clouds have finally scattered, but the air still bites at exposed skin, dry and electric like the charge before a storm. For once, Amity Park feels quiet—not eerie quiet, but excited. Like the whole town is watching, waiting, ready to clap.

Danny is not ready.

He paces the back hallway of the school auditorium, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against his thighs. His breath comes short and shallow, and he keeps tugging at the collar of his shirt like it’s suddenly two sizes too small.

This is different from ghost-fighting.

He can charge into a fight without blinking. Ectoblasts, claws, screaming phantoms rising out of sewer grates? Fine. Hand him a thermos and point him at the problem. But standing in front of a crowd—singing in front of a crowd?

That’s terrifying.

It’s not just his classmates out there. It’s parents. Teachers. Principal Ishiyama. People with phones. People who record things.

Danny lets out a shaky breath and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. His heart is trying to break out of his ribcage, fluttering like a bird that doesn’t understand glass. His throat is dry. His palms are damp. He keeps blinking like that'll make the nerves drain out of him.

"Okay, you're going to hyperventilate and pass out if you keep doing that," Sam says from the bench nearby, arms crossed, black lipstick just slightly smudged at the corner from a coffee she snuck past the front desk.

Tucker, sitting cross-legged beside her with a tangle of cables and a half-open laptop, nods solemnly. “Statistically speaking, panic spirals reduce performance by at least 37 percent. More if you forget how to breathe.”

“Super helpful,” Danny mutters, flopping down beside them like a puppet cut from its strings. His knee bounces. Then both knees bounce. Then he groans and slumps forward, hiding his face in his hands. “I can’t do this.”

“You can,” Sam says, firm but not sharp. “You’ve practiced. You know the song. You’re good.”

“Yeah,” Tucker adds. “You’ve literally fought a ghost who wanted to enslave the whole of Amnity on more than one occasion. Singing a song you already know in front of some bored parents should be a walk in the park.”

Danny peeks at them through his fingers. “The ghost didn’t have a camcorder.”

Sam rolls her eyes and nudges his shoulder. “You’re just nervous because this matters. That’s not a bad thing.”

“And it’s not just about you,” Tucker adds. “We’re all going out there together. You’re not alone.”

Danny lifts his head, breath catching just slightly on that last word.

Together.

“Hell,” Sam continues with an amused huff. “We’re all nervous. My parents think we’re going to play Mozart or something.”

“You still haven’t told them?” Tucker raises a brow.

“I haven’t told them a lot of things.” Sam rolls her eyes. “I just do it and ask for forgiveness later.”

Danny snorts—just a little puff of air through his nose—but it’s the start of something. A crack in the panic, a ripple through the wall he’s built around his nerves. Sam catches it and raises an eyebrow like there it is, and Tucker, ever the opportunist, grins.

“See?” Tucker says. “There’s that trademark Fenton snort. Next stop: full laugh.”

“No,” Danny groans, but the word is dragged out and halfway into a laugh already.

“Oh come on, man, let it out. Just picture Principal Ishiyama trying to headbang. Or Lancer. You know he’s gonna clap off-beat with that weird jazz teacher energy.”

Danny presses a hand over his mouth, shoulders trembling. “Stop,” he warns, voice muffled.

“Or Wes. You know Wes is gonna try to flirt with Val mid-set again and she’s gonna crush his soul with one look—”

“Like a soda can,” Sam deadpans.

That does it. Danny breaks into a laugh, the kind that’s a little wheezy and a lot too loud, but once it starts, it doesn’t stop. It spills out of him all at once, bright and almost dizzying, like a pressure valve finally popping open.

He shakes his head. “You guys are the worst.”

“We know,” Sam says, smug.

“Also the best,” Tucker adds, bumping Danny’s knee with his own.

Danny nods, then stands, cracking his knuckles and rolling out his shoulders like he’s about to go into a sparring match. He’s still nervous. His heart is still beating like a trapped drum. But it’s not everything now. It’s background noise. Manageable.

He can do this. They can do this.

They got this.

They grab their gear and start down the corridor toward the side entrance of the auditorium. Light spills under the doors ahead, a soft golden glow that’s almost stage-like even from back here. They’re close. The muffled sound of the crowd is a low hum behind the walls, excited and waiting.

As they round the corner, they spot Wes and Val already there. Wes is messing with a mic stand like it personally offended him. Val’s checking over her custom rig—drum pads and synth loops she soldered together herself—looking effortlessly cool in a red leather jacket and shades, like she’s already played three world tours.

And then there’s Dash.

He’s leaning against the wall, guitar slung across his back, trying to look casual and only half-succeeding. When he spots Danny, his whole posture straightens—subtle, but Danny catches it.

“Hey,” Dash says, voice low but not awkward. Just… careful.

Danny meets his eyes. The nerves flicker again, sharp and sudden, but this time he rides the wave instead of sinking under it.

“Hey.”

Tucker sets his laptop down on a stool. “Alright, gang, time to plug in and warm up. Let’s make some noise.”

Val grins. “Let’s make a mess.”

“Let’s make a statement,” Sam corrects.

Wes doesn’t look up. “Let’s make it out alive.”

Danny chuckles under his breath and unslings his guitar, fingers settling over the strings like coming home. He glances once more at Dash—who’s looking at him like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how.

That’s okay.

Danny doesn’t know either.