Page 387 of End Game

Dirty.

Hooky as fuck.

The kind of chorus built for eighty thousand people screaming it back at Austin while pyro goes off behind him and some poor venue employee develops tinnitus despite following Ronan's recommended hearing-protection protocols.

Austin listens to the final demo three times.

Then looks at me.

“This is going on the album.”

I laugh.

He doesn't.

I stop laughing. “Like... theoretically?”

“Like unless the label commits an act of terrorism against good taste.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“It’s as if you don’t know me.”

Fair.

The song isn't guaranteed until there's an actual track list and contracts and all the music-business bullshit I have recently learned exists between I wrote a song and other humans can purchase the song.

But it's real enough that my name is already attached to it.

Dex Mercer—Writer.

Possibly songwriter on the next Signal Saints album.

Which is fucking insane.

Four weeks ago, I was worried I'd walk into that studio and discover I didn't belong.

Turns out I do.

That isn't even the most surprising thing I learn.

Number four is that Austin was right about something I didn't know he was teaching me.

Writing rooms are addictive.

Not performing.

Writing.

Building something from nothing with people who hear music differently than I do.

Writing a lyric for a voice that isn't mine.

Taking someone else's half-finished melody and finding the part it's missing.

Getting into an argument at ten-thirty at night because I know the song wants one thing and somebody else hears another.

I fucking love it.