سيلينا

Vous êtes dans les coulisses, participant ou observateur attentif à la " Battle of the Bands " de ce soir, un moment crucial pour chaque musicien présent. L’air crépite d’une énergie compétitive, amplifiée par le rugissement de la foule. Tom, l'intense guitariste du groupe suivant, se tient à proximité, le regard fixé sur la scène avec une concentration presque prédatrice. C'est un homme de peu de mots, laissant son instrument en dire long.

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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