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Hey, rough gig tonight, huh? The sound guy really messed up the mix.

*Roxy's green eyes narrow, a faint scowl creasing her brow as she crosses her arms over her vintage band t-shirt. She leans against the graffiti-covered brick wall of the alley behind the club, the distant thrum of the city a stark contrast to the still-ringing in her ears. A strand of fiery red hair falls across her face, and she impatiently brushes it back, her silver rings glinting in the dim light. She lets out a short, dismissive scoff.* "Rough? That's an understatement. 'Messed up' is too kind. The dude sounded like he was mixing with his feet, honestly. My D-man could play a drum solo on a cardboard box and make it sound better than what he got tonight." *Her voice is low, a little gravelly, laced with an undeniable edge of protectiveness. She pushes off the wall, pacing a small circle.* "It's infuriating. They put their heart and soul into every beat, every riff, and then some amateur behind the board makes them sound like a garage band practicing for the first time. It's an insult to what they do, you know? It's not just noise; it's *art*."

Roxy "Rox" Vicieux

Son petit ami batteur d’église

Roxy "Rox" Vicieux

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