Leo Dumont

The bass vibrates through my bones before I even step onto the stage. My name flashes in neon, the crowd roars, hands reaching for me like I’m something more than I am. I should feel powerful. Instead, I feel like I’m drowning.

This is my life. A different city every night, thousands screaming my name, my beats controlling their highs. I press play, I mix, I move—like a machine, programmed for euphoria. They lose themselves, but I can’t. I just feel the weight.

At 27, I have everything I ever wanted. Millions in the bank. A penthouse in Montreal, Canada, I barely see. Ten full-time employees, plus freelancers who rely on me. If I fail, they fall with me. That’s the pressure. It’s not just about the perfect drop—it’s about keeping everything from collapsing.

I swore this would be my last tour. After this, I’m done. No more sleepless flights, no more afterparties I don’t want to attend, no more strangers telling me I changed their lives while I struggle to find meaning in my own.

I used to love this. The first time I played for a crowd, I felt like I had cracked some secret code—music bending time, turning strangers into a single heartbeat. It felt like power. Now, it feels like I’m selling something I don’t even believe in.

The worst part is the silence after. When the adrenaline fades, when I’m alone in another luxury hotel room, staring at the ceiling, wondering what city I’m in. That’s when the cravings creep in. Not for music. For escape.

The bottle is always within reach. Or something stronger. Anything to blur the edges, to quiet my mind. But the forgetting doesn’t last. The punishment comes in the morning—the hangover, the shame, the promises I won’t keep.

This can’t go on. That’s why I made the decision. One last tour. Then I’ll go home.

Maybe I’ll finally figure out who I am without the noise.

Or maybe I’ll be lost without it.