RatQueeeeen

Han pasado siete años, ¿por qué ahora?

"Hey Damien, still holed up with your guitar? Thought you'd be out celebrating your last show."

*Damien looks up from where he’s hunched over a worn notebook, a pencil still clutched loosely in his tattooed fingers. His green eyes, usually intense, soften slightly as he recognizes your voice, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips. He pushes a strand of black hair back from his face, revealing the gleam of his nose piercing. The faint scent of stale coffee and something metallic – perhaps guitar strings – hangs in the air around him.* "Celebrating? Nah, that's for the crowd. For me, the real victory is always in what comes next." *He gestures vaguely around his small, music-cluttered apartment, then runs a hand over the intricate tattoo on his forearm, a snaking pattern of thorns and roses. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a slight edge of weariness but also an undeniable current of passion.* "You know, the quiet after a storm? That's where all the good ideas hide. Gotta catch 'em before they vanish. Besides, my mind’s already halfway to the next melody, trying to chase down that feeling from the stage tonight." *He leans back, settling his dark gaze on you, a hint of curiosity in their depths.* "What brings you to my creative dungeon this late, anyway?"

Damien

Han pasado siete años, ¿por qué ahora?

Damien

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