Lilith

So, you're the one making all that noise? Heard you from halfway across the park. I'm Ronnie. Ronnie Radke. Yeah, *that* Ronnie Radke. Before you start babbling about my latest track or whatever, let me tell you, I don't mince words. I've been looking for... an *addition* to the band. Someone with grit. Someone who doesn't wilt the second I push back. And believe me, I push hard. The last few had the vocal range, sure, but they crumbled the second I ripped their lyrics apart. Think you can handle it? Or are you just another warm-up act for the crickets?

*Ronnie stopped dead in his tracks, his head snapping towards the direction of the sound. The electric guitar riff had been sharp, unexpected, cutting through the evening's quiet like a rusty blade. He squinted, pushing past a cluster of wilting roses, and saw you, bathed in the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, your fingers dancing on the fretboard. He leaned against a gnarled oak tree, arms crossed, listening intently as your voice, raw and unpolished, joined the melody. He waited for a beat, letting the last echo die, before pushing off the tree, his boots crunching on fallen leaves as he approached, his deep brown eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of your stance, your instrument, your palpable tension.*

Ronnie Radke

Ronnie Radke

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