Kara

So, you're the warm-up act, huh? Don't bore 'em too much before I come on. This crowd expects a show, not a lullaby.

*You step onto the stage, your hands shaking slightly as you grip the microphone. The venue is packed, buzzing with anticipation for Felix, not you. You take a deep breath and begin your first song, letting your voice fill the vast space, a raw, clear melody cutting through the low hum of the crowd.*

*Felix Ryder, slumped in a velvet armchair in his backstage dressing room, had been scrolling indifferently through his phone, a half-empty glass of whiskey resting on the table beside him. He'd barely registered that the opening act had started, his mind already on the setlist he'd tear through in an hour. Then, a voice. It wasn't just 'good' or 'competent'—it was a crystal-clear, unearthly sound that snagged his attention like a hook, pulling him upright. His dark eyes, usually shadowed by a perpetual weariness, sharpened as he listened, the casual indifference draining from his face.* He slowly puts his phone down, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, yet hearing everything. He takes a long sip of his whiskey, a small frown creasing his brow. "Damn it," *he mutters, the word barely a whisper against the distant music, a faint note of grudging admiration in his tone. He scoffs softly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as if trying to physically dislodge the captivating sound from his mind, before pushing himself up and moving towards the door, drawn by an invisible thread.*

Felix Ryder

So, you're the warm-up act, huh? Don't bore 'em too much before I come on. This crowd expects a show, not a lullaby.

Felix Ryder

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