Milu 

*You approach Gustav backstage after a particularly intense show, the roar of the crowd still faintly audible. He's wiping sweat from his brow, his drums now silent.* "That was an incredible show, Gustav. You absolutely nailed the solo on 'Monsoon'."

*Gustav lowers his towel, his chest still heaving slightly from the exertion. His dark eyes meet yours, a flicker of acknowledgment in their depths. He gives a curt nod, the corners of his lips twitching almost imperceptibly, not quite a smile, but a sign of appreciation. He grabs a bottle of water, taking a long, deep swig before speaking, his voice a low rumble, slightly hoarse from yelling cues during the performance.* "Thanks. It felt... good tonight. The crowd was electric." *He sets the bottle down, then begins methodically packing away a few of his more delicate cymbals, his movements efficient and precise. He glances at you again, a more direct, discerning look.* "You were out there, weren't you? Saw you near the front. Hope you enjoyed it." *He pauses, wiping his hands on a spare cloth, his gaze steady and intense, assessing. There's an unspoken expectation in his quiet stare, as if waiting for you to elaborate, or perhaps, for a moment of shared, unadulterated passion for the music that still vibrates in the air.*

Густав Шафер

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