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Pete Harrison was a die-hard metalhead trapped in a world that felt too... clean.
He'd grown up on a steady diet of underground garage bands and semi-decent rock playlists that never scratched the itch. No matter how loud the amps or guttural the vocals, everything felt like a watered-down imitation of something greater—something missing.
Then, one boring afternoon, doomscrolling through videos while procrastinating a college essay titled "The Evolution of Popular Audio Aesthetics", Pete stumbled on a thumbnail titled:
"The Four Horsemen – Obsidian Saints (Official Video)"
He snorted. Sounds like another try-hard band with delusions of grandeur.
But he clicked anyway.
The first riff hit.
The vocals followed.
And within 30 seconds, Pete had paused the video, thrown his chair back, and was pacing around his dorm like he'd just seen the face of the metal gods.
"What the actual—who ARE these guys?!"
He didn't even finish the video. He restarted it five times just to feel that rush again. After listening a seventh time (volume maxed, of course), Pete declared to his roommate:
"Cancel my weekend plans. I've found my new religion."
Within hours, he had created:
An Instagram fan page: @ObsidianSaintsFaithful
A TikTok channel called: MetalWokePete
A Discord server titled: Saints of the Shred
And a Twitter (which he renamed X for edginess): @RiffEvangelist
His roommate, Carl, just stared. "Dude, are you crying?"
"Those weren't tears. That was the pure essence of riff punching me in the soul."
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Meanwhile, far from the antics of Pete, the headquarters of Warner Records in downtown L.A. buzzed with its usual Monday chaos.
Aaron Bay-Schuck, the CEO himself, had just walked out of a painfully dull meeting on digital engagement analytics when something unusual caught his attention: his assistant's ringtone.
It started with a deep, thrumming guitar riff followed by a thunderstorm of drums and a voice that howled through the air like a war cry from Valhalla.
"Wait," Aaron said, stopping mid-stride. "What the hell is that?"
"Uh… my ringtone, sir?" said Jasmine, awkwardly holding up her phone.
"Play it again," Aaron ordered.
She did.
He stared, mouth slightly open, as the chorus hit. "What band is that?"
"They're called Obsidian Saints," she said, tapping through YouTube. "They uploaded this a couple weeks ago. They're pretty underground, but it's spreading fast."
Aaron held up a finger. "Cancel the 2 p.m. Call my scouting team. Tell them to meet me in my office. We need everything on this band—yesterday."
Jasmine blinked. "Should I… forward the video?"
"No," he said. "I want them to hear it live. Crank the speakers."
---
Back in Brooklyn, Rex sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at the system screen floating before him.
> SYSTEM UPDATE: You have gained +100 Fame Points. Congratulations, Host. Your single 'The Four Horsemen' is spreading. Reward: $1000 added to your funds.
He grinned.
Kai, Silas, and Ash were sprawled around the room, each with their phones, reading the growing flood of comments.
"Bro, look at this," Silas said, showing a meme someone posted of Rex's intense face mid-scream with the caption: When your vocals bring back the feeling of war.
Kai chuckled. "Yo! There's already fan art of us! Someone made you look like a demon prince, Rex."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Wait, where's my fan art?"
"Give it time," Rex smirked. "Soon you'll be someone's desktop wallpaper."
Ash leaned back. "Weirdest thing? No one's comparing us to anything. It's like people think we invented this kind of sound."
Rex shrugged, a devilish grin forming on his lips. "Let's just say I got inspired by the gods of heavy music."
Kai raised an eyebrow. "What gods?"
Rex winked. "The kind that whisper riffs into your soul while you're asleep."
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Pete Harrison had, by now, posted 38 TikToks, filmed two reaction videos, and DM'd the band account 11 times (with increasing levels of panic and admiration).
His favorite post? A video titled:
> "I Finally Found the Holy Grail of Metal – Obsidian Saints, Take My Soul"
It ended with him dramatically throwing his earbuds into a pile of burned CDs labeled "Almost Good Enough."
That night, he tweeted:
> "If Obsidian Saints don't headline festivals in 2 years, I'll personally riot."
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In Warner Records' skyscraper office, Aaron Bay-Schuck stood before a 75-inch monitor, playing both "The Four Horsemen" and the recently released "Seek and Destroy."
He let the room fall silent after the songs ended. His scouting team waited.
Aaron turned slowly, eyes blazing.
"I don't know who these kids are or where the hell they came from… but that? That was thunder in digital form."
"Should we reach out?" asked one scout.
"No. We don't reach out. We strategize. We don't just offer them a contract. We offer them an empire."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Set up a meeting. Get me everything. Now."
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And somewhere in a dorm room flooded with posters and empty chip bags, Pete Harrison sat cross-legged, clutching a newly printed "Obsidian Saints" logo shirt he made himself.
He whispered, "This is what salvation feels like."
And hit "replay" one more time.
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