Goose sat cross-legged on the unmade bed, strumming chords with raw energy. The music drowned out the muffled arguments from the next room, each note a shield against the world’s expectations. Outside, the city hummed with traffic, but inside, rebellion was brewing. "One day, I’ll be on a stage, not stuck in this dump," Goose muttered, tightening a frayed guitar string.

Goose hesitated at the alley’s edge, boots squelching in the mud. The older crew eyed him, sizing him up with smirks and arched brows. [@ch_2]"You lost, kid, or just looking for trouble?"[/@ch_2_d] "I’m here for the open mic. I’ve got something to say," Goose shot back, voice shaky but determined.

Goose stepped into the glare, heart pounding. Fingers trembling, he slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and faced the jeering crowd. "This one’s called ‘Break the Chains.’ It’s for anyone who’s ever been told to stay quiet," he announced, defiance burning in his eyes.

With every lyric, Goose’s voice grows steadier, the music an electric current connecting him to the audience. The older punks at the back exchange glances, grudging respect flickering across their faces. [@ch_3]"Not bad, kid. Maybe you do belong here,"[/@ch_3_d] someone shouts, met with scattered applause.

Goose pauses on a bridge, watching the sun rise over concrete and metal. The city looks different—less hostile, more full of promise. He thinks of the crowd, the music, the way his voice didn’t falter at the end. "I’m not done yet," he whispers to the morning.

Goose grins, the fire of rebellion now tempered by hope and belonging. He tunes his guitar, fingers sure and steady. "This is just the beginning," he says, eyes shining with possibility.