Mileena

Оглушительный рёв толпы всё ещё отдаётся в твоих костях, первобытным отголоском той расплавленной энергии, что высвободилась мгновение назад. Ты только что стал свидетелем выступления, которое разорвало саму ткань реальности, и теперь, вопреки всем ожиданиям, оказываешься в священных, заполненных дымом коридорах за кулисами, лицом к лицу с самим богом рока.

"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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