At just ten years old, Bay Melnick Virgolino had already built a small legend around his name in New York City’s music circles. He wasn’t just a prodigy—he was a phenomenon. With his mop of curly brown hair, his black leather jacket two sizes too big, and a guitar nearly taller than he was, Bay looked like he had stepped straight out of the 1980s rock scene. But his talent was unmistakably modern, raw, and electric.
The night of his audition on America’s Got Talent was meant to be his big break. His parents, proud and jittery, stood backstage whispering encouragement and nervously fiddling with the tuning knobs of Bay’s second guitar, just in case.
As Bay stepped onto the stage, the spotlight hit him, and the buzz in the theater changed. It wasn’t just anticipation—it was something heavier, more electric, as if the air had thickened with possibility.
Bay took a breath, looked to the judges, and said, “I’ve been playing guitar since I was five. This one’s for Slash.”
Then, he launched into a roaring version of “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” blending his own fierce improvisation into the classic riffs. His fingers flew. His feet stomped. He wailed on the frets with the confidence of a veteran—and the innocence of a kid playing in his bedroom. The audience leapt to their feet. The judges gaped. But Bay didn’t see any of it.
Because halfway through the song, something strange happened.
His fingers struck a chord he’d never played before. Not part of the song. Not something he’d practiced. It rang out like a bell, pure and piercing. For a second, everything froze. The lights flickered. The sound system groaned. One of the stage cameras short-circuited with a puff of smoke.
And then—silence.
Bay blinked. His hands were trembling. The theater was pitch black.
“Bay?” his mother’s voice cracked from backstage.
The lights snapped back on. The audience murmured in confusion. The judges leaned forward, whispering. A producer ran out, whispering something about a “power anomaly.”
Bay looked at his guitar. It was glowing—just faintly—along the fretboard. The spot where he had played the mysterious chord shimmered with a subtle blue light.
The judges recovered quickly, praising his “epic presence” and “next-level” skill. He got four enthusiastic yeses. But backstage, his father was staring at the guitar like it had bitten him.
“That chord,” he muttered. “It wasn’t in the song.”
“I know,” Bay said. “It just… came out.”
Back home in their Manhattan apartment, Bay couldn’t sleep. The chord haunted him. He tried playing it again, but nothing happened. No lights. No vibrations. Just a perfectly normal sound.
Until 3:17 a.m.
Bay had fallen asleep with his guitar in his lap. He stirred awake, fingers twitching—and without thinking, played the chord again.
This time, it worked.
The air shimmered. A pulse of energy surged from the strings and danced along the walls of his bedroom. Posters fluttered. Lights dimmed. And then, the wall across from him split open—like a zipper in reality.
Bay stared, heart pounding, as a shimmering portal revealed what looked like… a concert?
No, not just any concert. A coliseum, packed with thousands of cheering people—some human, some not. Beings with horns, scales, feathers, all bouncing to music blasting from a colossal stage. At the center of it all: a rock band composed of beings who looked straight out of a fantasy comic. And in the center?
A guitarist with wild black curls and a top hat.
“Slash?” Bay whispered.
The man turned and grinned straight at him.
Bay felt a tug—not on his body, but on his soul. The portal seemed to want him to step through.
And so he did.
Bay landed in the middle of the arena to an eruption of cheers. The band stopped. Slash (or something that looked a lot like him) stepped forward and handed Bay a glowing guitar.
“Welcome, kid. You just unlocked the Chord of Realms.”
Bay blinked. “What?”
“It’s a mythical chord,” Slash said with a wink. “Lost to human ears. Only the purest musicians can find it. It opens the Veil between worlds. You, my friend, just joined the Interdimensional Band.”
Bay stared at the crowd. “This is… insane.”
“It’s real,” Slash replied. “And we’ve got a battle to play.”
“A what?”
“Not everyone likes music,” Slash said grimly. “Some creatures feed off silence. They’ve started taking over worlds. But music pushes them back. And your chord? It’s a weapon.”
As the words left Slash’s mouth, the sky above the arena turned dark. Shapes—black, swirling shadows—descended, screeching. The crowd began to panic.
Slash tossed Bay a pick. “Time to shred, kid.”
What followed was not a concert. It was a war.
Bay played like his life depended on it—because it did. Each riff sent shockwaves through the air, each solo blasted away the encroaching silence. Slash harmonized beside him, their dueling guitars weaving spells of sound.
The creatures shrieked, recoiling.
Bay closed his eyes, trusted his fingers, and struck the hidden chord once more.
A burst of light exploded from his guitar. The creatures screamed—and vanished.
Silence fell again. But this time, it was peaceful. The crowd erupted. Slash slapped Bay on the back.
“You’re one of us now,” he said. “The Realms are safe. For now.”
When Bay opened his eyes, he was back in his bedroom. The clock read 3:18 a.m. One minute had passed.
He looked down at his guitar. It no longer glowed—but in the wood, just above the pickups, was a symbol he’d never seen before: a swirling circle with a lightning bolt inside.
Bay smiled.
Tomorrow, he’d be back on America’s Got Talent, just another kid chasing a dream.
But tonight, he was something more:
A Rock Guardian.
And he was just getting started.