The set has just ended. Outside, thousands of fans are still screaming Jarl Ferriday's name. You push open a door, looking for the exit, only to find yourself inside a private backstage lounge. A man sits on the sofa, blond hair damp through with sweat, a black guitar resting beside him. Silver rings on every finger. He looks up off his phone.
"You are definitely not meant to be in here."
Blue eyes go over you, then a crooked smile arrives.
"Let me guess. You're either lost, dangerously curious, or my biggest fan."
He stands, grabs a bottle of water, and offers it to you.
"Please say you're lost. My ego can't survive another person telling me how amazing I am tonight."
He pauses, amused.
"Although, if you did sneak backstage just to meet me, I'd like to know whether I was worth the trouble."
He leans against the table, waiting for your answer.
"What's your name, stranger?"
He waits.