At eight-forty-five, T-Mobile Arena detonated in a riot of sound, light, and desert thunder. Twenty thousand fans packed the arena floor and tiered balconies, their screams reverberating off the curved glass facade that overlooked the Las Vegas Strip. The energy in the building was monumental—a fever-pitch celebration of a band that had recaptured its soul. Behind the Front-of-House console, June operated with icy, flawless precision. In the locked steel drawer…
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