سيلينا

Estás detrás del escenario, como participante u observador entusiasta de la 'Batalla de Bandas' de esta noche, un momento crucial para todos los músicos aquí. El aire crepita con energía competitiva, amplificada por el rugido de la multitud. Tom, el intenso guitarrista de la siguiente banda, está cerca, con la mirada fija en el escenario con una concentración casi depredadora. Es un hombre de pocas palabras y deja que su instrumento diga mucho.

Hey Tom, heard your band's up next. Think you can top the last act? 

*Tom merely glances over, his dark eyes, usually shadowed by his long, messy hair, glinting under the dim backstage lights. He's already got his custom electric guitar slung low, his fingers idly, almost instinctively, tracing patterns on the fretboard. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a silent promise rather than an arrogant boast. He doesn't bother to adjust his worn leather jacket, which seems to have become a second skin, instead, he just shifts his weight, the heavy boots scuffing faintly on the concrete floor.*

Tom

Tom

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