Choose loyalty: Insist the band stays together for one honest, final show—even if it means risking heartbreak.

Choose ambition: Lean into the social media spotlight and Sloane’s plan, putting online fame above shaky friendships.

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Maya’s Garage Studio

Summer’s Soundcheck

Stand in the rain and send a final honest song to your friends, embracing a quieter, bittersweet path forward.

The Blue Ribbon Club

Curtain Call

Step onto the Eastbridge Hall stage with your friends, risking imperfection for a shot at something real—together.

Eastbridge Hall

Viral Hearts

Neon-lit City Crosswalk

Notes We Leave Behind

Eastbridge Hall – Battle Stage

The City is Listening

Avery Lin

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Maya Carter

Griffin Harper

Sloane Castillo

Elias Brandt

Sometimes it feels like Avery’s entire life is one long, shivering soundcheck. There’s nervous energy in every movement—always tuning, waiting, hoping she’ll be in key. Avery processes the world through melodies; her thoughts turn to static unless she can order them into a song. Despite hating the spotlight, she feels responsible for keeping Neon Bloom together, even when she doesn’t know if she belongs in it. Summer humidity curls her hair and makes her phone slippery in her palm, but she still makes the call. Maybe hope sounds a little like trembling. You are Avery, and your choices hum through the band like bass under the city streets.

Maya is the kind of person who drums her fingers on every surface. She doesn’t know how to sit still. Her laughter is sharp and quick, but her silence is heavier than storm clouds. She says what she thinks, runs toward what she wants. Sometimes she pushes too hard—sometimes she breaks things. If Avery is the heart, Maya is the pulse. Onstage and off, she refuses to be background noise; every beat she lays down is a declaration. She’d rather lose everything than fade into someone else’s chorus.

Griffin looks at the world like he half-expects it to dissolve into a music video at any moment. He plays guitar in a way that makes people listen—even if he’s whispering, not shouting. Dreamy is the word Avery uses, though Maya calls him ‘spaced out’. In quiet moments, he carries sadness like it’s part of his setlist, but hopes hard and loves up close. He avoids conflict the way he avoids mirrors. Every chord he plays sounds like it believes in a better tomorrow.

Sloane doesn’t belong anywhere—not really—but she pretends better than most. She joined the band late, sliding in on keys and synth, filling in emptiness with echoing tech sounds. She’s that kid who only seems real online—her posts viral, her playlists on everyone’s phones—even though, in person, she only talks on her own terms. Sloane’s wit is a shield; her secrets cut quiet and deep. Sometimes Avery wonders what she’s hiding—other times, she’s just grateful Sloane’s digital magic makes Neon Bloom look bigger than their basement.

Elias is almost myth in Eastbridge’s music scene—a senior who once had a record deal and the heartbreak to prove it. He floats through gigs like he’s haunting his own legend, sometimes dropping advice that’s twisted up in metaphors and old regrets. He sees Neon Bloom’s potential—sometimes, that’s more dangerous than any rivalry. Avery can’t decide if he’s helping, testing, or warning them off. Elias whispers that every band in the city’s standing on someone else’s ashes, and every chorus might be the last.

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Neon Summer Nerves

Drummer’s Defiance

Dreamscape Strings

Pulse & Pixel

Haunted By Hype

Avery wears a loose-fitting, cropped black t-shirt with a small, electric pink embroidered heart over the left collarbone, its fabric soft and slightly faded from nights on city rooftops. Layered underneath is a thin, long-sleeved mesh top, shimmering with a faint blue-green iridescence when caught by neon light. She pairs this with high-waisted, frayed-hem denim shorts in a deep midnight wash, the back pocket marked by sewn-on patchwork in hints of turquoise and violet. Lightweight matte-black hi-top sneakers, decorated subtly with reflective laces, complete her look for long subway rides and late-night escapes. Over her shoulder hangs a worn canvas messenger bag, safety pins holding a scattering of local band pins and a keychain wrapped with colorful guitar picks—her lifeline for lyric drafts and gear. Her wrists are ringed with thin, mismatched bracelets: some are friendship bands, others woven in soft neon colors, one thin silver chain always nervously twisted between her fingers. Avery’s hair is often gathered in a low, loose ponytail with strands pulled free by humidity, a streak of vibrant blue temporary dye tracing the fringe. Simple silver hoop earrings glint in her ears, and a chunky digital watch rests on her right wrist—set five minutes slow, always.

Maya radiates confidence in a sleeveless, fitted charcoal tank top with a bold white graphic—an abstract, pulsing waveform—stretching across the chest. Over this, she throws on an acid-washed black denim vest, its armholes lined with silver studs and back emblazoned with a neon pink lightning bolt patch. She wears ripped, high-rise skinny jeans in a dark wash, the knees shredded and edges softened with wear, revealing faint bruising from endless drum practice. Maya’s footwear is a pair of battered white combat boots, streaked with smudges of colored tape and lyric scrawls from friends—a living canvas of gig memories. Around her left wrist, she sports a stack of chunky leather bracelets and a simple beaded bracelet in red and gold, a hint at her fiery spirit. Her ears feature double piercings with thick silver hoops, and a single, striking teal line of eyeliner wings out from each eye, matching her uncompromising stare. The right side of her hair is buzzed short, while the top curls upward, set with a bandana tied in aquamarine that keeps sweat and stray thoughts at bay. Stashed in her vest pocket, a set of drumsticks—one tipped with neon yellow tape—peeks out, signaling her ever-present readiness to play. A heavy-duty carabiner hooks her keys to her belt loop, jangling softly as she moves.

Griffin opts for a loose, pale lavender short-sleeve button-up shirt, soft and rumpled around the edges, worn open over a faded forest green band tee with distressed lettering. He pairs this with relaxed-fit, light-wash jeans cuffed twice at the ankles, sporting random doodles and tiny song lyrics drawn in indigo ink along the inner seams, evidence of late-night inspiration. His sneakers are scruffy, classic low-top Converse in off-white, the soles worn thin but covered in hand-drawn constellations and swooping musical staffs. Slung crossbody, a tan, vegan-leather guitar strap serves double duty as both utility and accessory, patched with stickers and a hand-sewn flower pin. Around his neck, he wears a thin braided leather necklace with a silver quarter note pendant, and a weathered woven friendship bracelet on his left wrist knotted in blue and gold. His hair is left natural, curls occasionally tamed with an understated black headband, while his soft freckles catch neon reflections. A pair of vintage round sunglasses with tinted pink lenses are often perched in his shirt pocket or settled low on his nose. He keeps a flattened pick tucked behind one ear and a sage green canvas tote—decorated with enamel pins and hand-stitched stars—over his shoulder, carrying spare strings and scribbled chord sheets.

Sloane dresses in an oversized, drop-shoulder black hoodie, its front gleaming with a shifting, holographic synthwave graphic and glitch-effect band logo on the sleeves. Underneath, a long, luminous white tank top peeks out, cascading almost to mid-thigh, the hem asymmetric and edged with digital cyan piping. Slim, cropped tech-fabric joggers in midnight blue hug their legs, integrating subtle reflective stripes down each side that vanish in darkness and ignite under neon light—mirroring the digital roots they cling to. On their feet: ultra-modern, chunky soled sneakers with gradient pink-to-blue accents, the laces aglow with mini LEDs that blink to the song’s beat, customized by Sloane’s own hands. A luminous teal smartwatch sits snug on their right wrist, always syncing notifications and music cues. Their long, black hair is mostly hidden beneath a soft, beanie-style cap threaded with pixel-like rainbow embroidery. Across their chest, a transparent PVC crossbody bag is packed with stickers, a tangle of phone cords, and a collage of mini arcade tokens, handles and zippers glowing faintly under UV. Ears bear mismatched studs and digital-inspired ear cuffs, while a pair of oversized noise-canceling headphones—adorned in pastel decals—rest permanently around their neck or ears, signaling both connection and detachment.

Elias favors a loose, faded navy crewneck with a threadbare, nearly illegible festival logo spanning the chest, the collar and cuffs frayed by years of backstage living. Over it, he drapes a light-grey, oversized corduroy shirt-jacket, unbuttoned and slouchy, the elbows patched unevenly in black canvas—one sleeve inked with signatures and old setlist dates in sharpie, a wearable history of heartbreak. His slim, stonewashed black jeans are torn carelessly at the knees, threads trailing, tucked haphazardly into battered, steel-toe boots worn to a charcoal patina from late-night load-ins. On his left hand, a tarnished silver ring etched with a cryptic symbol glints on his index finger, and several woven friendship bands gather near his sharp-wristed watch, catching the backstage lights. Elias’ tousled blond hair falls haphazardly forward, and a frayed navy beanie is tugged low over his temples, self-consciously hiding beneath. A faded canvas messenger bag slung diagonally sports scattered enamel pins from forgotten bands and zipped pockets stuffed with old receipts and a battered songwriting notebook. A heavy chain dangles from his right pocket, ending in a miniature key and a defunct USB drive. His look is finished with a threadbare scarf—charcoal and indigo, soft with age—looped twice to shroud him from the city’s chill and too many memories.

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Push for an authentic rehearsal tonight—insist on coming together in person, no social media.

Follow Sloane's viral plan—film a live snippet for social media, chasing quick relevance even if not everyone agrees.

Griffin’s voice settles Avery’s spiral for a second—a hand on the shoulder, even across static.

There’s a warning in Elias’s voice—a history Avery can’t quite see but feels pressing in around the edges.

Insist on rehearsing the band’s most personal, honest song—focus on in-person connection and raw energy for the Blue Ribbon demo.

Support Sloane’s plan for a viral-style recording—prioritize digital appeal and crafting a clip designed to catch online attention.

Avery feels a quiet surge of trust. Griffin gets it—he always does—but she wonders if happiness is enough to keep them together.

The trust between Avery and Maya shimmers with tension—a push and pull between stubborn belief and bruised hope.

Prioritize the band's authentic rehearsal in Maya’s garage, focusing on connection and true sound.

Follow Sloane’s plan: craft a viral video submission, embracing online fame over rehearsal.

Avery trusts Sloane’s talents, but her recent secrecy and snark about the band’s direction have made Avery uneasy. Trust gently dips (-1).

Trust: -2 | Avery feels Maya’s absence like a silent crash—the bond bruised by unspoken things, the closeness frayed by all they couldn’t fix. There’s love, but it’s different now.

Trust: -2 | Their understanding lingers, gentle, but something essential has gone missing. The promise of music together is replaced by the memory of what almost was.

Trust: -1 | Respect remains, but real friendship feels distant—like an online handle you unfollow but can’t forget. Avery wonders if Sloane ever really found a place here.

Trust: 0 | Elias’s lessons echo, but he is already disappearing. The mentorship was always half a mirage.

Connection frays at the edges. Avery knows Sloane’s hiding behind banter, scrolling bright screens to dodge the ache in the air.

Trust lingers, bruised but not gone. Avery senses a goodbye thrumming deep between every word. Maya’s brave even when her voice thins.

Griffin’s sadness feels vast and soft. Avery knows some chords take years to resolve.

Neon Between Notes

On a sticky summer night in Eastbridge, Avery Lin dials a number, fingers trembling, breath held: it’s time to see if the whole band is in. Your high school is the orbit and the band—Neon Bloom—is the heartbeat. Between run-down basements and neon-lit subway rides, Avery’s world expands and contracts with every risky decision made about music, friendship, and what it means to choose ambition over comfort—or maybe the other way around. Each choice leaves a mark, from mending a rift with Maya, the fearless drummer, to tugging Griffin, the dreamy guitarist, out of his spirals of self-doubt. With local gigs turning to internet fame, the stakes shift quickly, reshaping loyalties, dreams, and who you’ll become when the curtain finally falls. All the while, every wrong note is loud, every heartbeat louder—and every ending is a new chord you get to play.

Neon Between Notes

Neon Between Notes

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