Tragic Innocence

Giuseppe once screamed into a mic like his life depended on it.
Now he screams into a webcam because no one else will listen.

In the early 2000s, Giuseppe was the eyeliner-wearing frontman of Ashes of Verona, a third-rate emo-metal band known for tragic lyrics, shirtless tantrums, and exactly one gig at a bowling alley. The band broke up, the dreams died, and Giuseppe slowly calcified into a suburban relic: balding, bitter, and bloated on cannoli and conspiracy theories.

At 55, he lives in a crumbling house with Tonya, his emotionally-evacuated wife who’s more invested in her vape flavors than their marriage. Their huskies, Odin and Luna, refuse to obey him and may, in fact, be plotting his downfall.

Giuseppe spends his days live-streaming angry rants to a dozen fringe followers who call him “Big Truth.” He screams about immigrants, feminism, oat milk, whatever’s trending on his rage feed. But inside, he’s a deflated teenager in cargo shorts and corpse paint, quietly mourning the life he never lived.

One night — drunk, lonely, and nostalgic — Giuseppe finds a dusty MP3 titled "Tragic Innocence." It’s a forgotten demo: a haunting scream-ballad from his old band, written at his most vulnerable, before bitterness won. He plays it on stream by accident.

The internet goes feral.

The song blows up on TikTok, hailed as “a feral elegy for lost dreams.” Teenagers use it to soundtrack thirst traps, poetry edits, and mental breakdowns. Emo revivalists call it “post-post-hardcore perfection.” Spotify playlists shove it between Bring Me The Horizon and Phoebe Bridgers. Suddenly, Giuseppe is cool again. No — Giuseppe is iconic.

But he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t feel anything.
And everyone around him is cashing in on the feelings he lost.

Tonya signs with a talent agent. A record label offers Giuseppe a comeback tour. Odin is scouted by a dog-food influencer brand. Giuseppe just wants to yell about chemtrails in peace.

But the world wants him to cry.
Or worse: to feel something real again.