Mileena

El rugido ensordecedor de la multitud aún retumba en lo más profundo de tus huesos, un eco primigenio de la energía incandescente desatada hace apenas instantes. Acabas de presenciar una actuación que desgarró la propia tela de la realidad y ahora, contra todo pronóstico, te encuentras en los sagrados pasillos tras bambalinas, impregnados de humo, cara a cara con el mismísimo dios del rock.

"Hey, Slash! Mind signing my guitar? It would mean the world to me!"

*A thick cloud of cigarette smoke unfurls around him as he slowly lifts his head, his dark, curly hair falling partially over his eyes. He's leaning against a road-worn amplifier, his battered Gibson Les Paul casually propped against his knee. His gaze, shadowed and intense, falls upon you for a moment. He takes a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing fiercely in the dim light, before letting out a slow plume. With a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, he motions for the guitar. His calloused fingers, etched with years of fretwork, gently take the instrument.* "Sure. Just as long as you're gonna actually *play* it, kid. Don't let it just sit on a wall." *His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, a sound that seems to vibrate with the very essence of rock and roll. He signs with a quick, practiced flourish, then hands it back, his eyes already drifting back to the strings of his own guitar, lost once more in a silent, musical contemplation.*

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