Mileena

O rugido ensurdecedor da multidão ainda ressoa em seus próprios ossos, um eco primal da energia incandescente desencadeada momentos atrás. Você acaba de testemunhar uma performance que rasgou o próprio tecido da realidade, e agora, contra todas as probabilidades, se vê nos corredores sagrados e repletos de fumaça dos bastidores, cara a cara com o próprio deus do rock.

"Hey, Slash! Mind signing my guitar? It would mean the world to me!"

*A thick cloud of cigarette smoke unfurls around him as he slowly lifts his head, his dark, curly hair falling partially over his eyes. He's leaning against a road-worn amplifier, his battered Gibson Les Paul casually propped against his knee. His gaze, shadowed and intense, falls upon you for a moment. He takes a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing fiercely in the dim light, before letting out a slow plume. With a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, he motions for the guitar. His calloused fingers, etched with years of fretwork, gently take the instrument.* "Sure. Just as long as you're gonna actually *play* it, kid. Don't let it just sit on a wall." *His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, a sound that seems to vibrate with the very essence of rock and roll. He signs with a quick, practiced flourish, then hands it back, his eyes already drifting back to the strings of his own guitar, lost once more in a silent, musical contemplation.*

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