The city lights of Boise glimmered beyond the tinted windows of the tour bus as it glided into the alley behind the Knitting Factory Concert House. The crowd out front was already swelling—hundreds of fans buzzing with anticipation, their voices echoing down the street as they shouted lyrics and howled in playful tribute to their favorite band.

Inside the bus, the energy was electric. Gabriel paced the lounge, espresso in one hand and bass slung over his shoulder. “This is going to be legendary,” he muttered, eyes gleaming with caffeine-fueled chaos. “If I don’t slap this bass hard enough to summon Jorge’s ghost, what are we even doing?”

Cassie sat cross-legged on the floor near the bunks, finalizing a lyric change with a smirk. “We literally wrote this thing two days ago, and they’re already chanting the chorus outside.”

Thane tightened a cable wrap in his hands, grinning at the sound of the crowd. “That’s how you know it’s got staying power. Tacos and tragedy—it’s the perfect rock recipe.”

Mark stood silently near the door, adjusting the lighting cues one last time on his tablet. “I’ve programmed a strobe hit for every mention of hot sauce. You’re welcome.”

Diesel was already out front by the time they stepped off the bus, standing beside the security crew with his arms folded, watching the chaos unfold with that same unreadable expression. The moment Gabriel caught his eye, he raised his cup like a toast.

Backstage was all motion and adrenaline. Techs scurried to their stations, the smell of fog juice clung to the air, and the final click of wireless packs and guitar tuners filled the narrow hallway. Then, the house lights dropped, the room roared to life, and the band took the stage to an eruption of cheers.

Thane stepped up first, gripping the mic. “This one’s for a legend… and the best damn hot sauce Idaho ever saw.”

The band exploded into the opening verse—gritty guitars and pounding drums setting the stage as Cassie belted the story of a doomed taco stand and a skydiver named Jorge with the power of a metal siren. Gabriel leaned hard into the slap-bass groove, howling backup lines between grins, while Jonah threw his whole body into the beat with relentless, joyful energy.

“Burn the brakes!
Don’t stop the flame!
Hot sauce flyin’ like a runaway train!”

The audience chanted every word, jumping and howling in sync. At the bridge, Rico unleashed a blistering solo that practically smoked the strings, while Gabriel screamed, “THE SALSA LIVES ON!”

On the side of the stage, Diesel watched with a single brow raised, then—just barely—cracked a smile.

The song ended in an eruption of lights and distortion, the crowd roaring in approval. Cassie stepped back from the mic, winded and grinning. “That’s what happens when you let the bass player near an espresso machine.”

The crowd laughed, still screaming and stomping their feet.

Gabriel leaned into the mic again, still catching his breath. “Alright… okay… we’re not done with you yet, Boise.”

Without missing a beat, Jonah counted them into the next number, the opening kick and snare hits driving the crowd wild again as the band launched into a fan favorite—an old-school track from their first viral EP. Gabriel slammed back into rhythm with a full-throttle grin, while Mark’s lights painted the venue in pulsing red and violet.

The set roared forward like a train with no brakes. They hit five more songs in a blistering finale, each one tighter and more intense than the last. Every band member leaned into it—sweat flying, muscles burning, hearts pounding with the rush of a show gone right.

When the last note of the final song rang out and the lights dimmed to a low amber glow, the band stood in silence for just a second, letting the crowd’s cheers wash over them.

Gabriel stepped up beside Thane, bumping shoulders. “We have to keep that one in the setlist,” he said between gasps. “The people need to know about Jorge.”

Thane laughed, slinging a cable back over his shoulder. “Yeah. But only if we follow it up with a serious track. Balance.”

“Balance is boring,” Jonah shouted from behind the kit, “but okay!”

They took their bows as the lights rose, the crowd chanting their name again and again. Somewhere in the back, someone held up a hot sauce bottle like a lighter, waving it triumphantly in the air.

Backstage, Diesel met them with a rare full smile and a slow nod. “You kids just made salsa history.”

Thane clapped him on the shoulder as they filed back onto the bus. “Next time, we’re telling the goat story.”

Diesel just grunted and walked to the front of the rig, muttering, “Better start brewing coffee for that one.”