Aria stood center stage, microphone in hand, her braided hair gleaming like strands of midnight under the blazing lights. The crowd roared, their energy vibrating through the massive venue as her raspy, powerful voice cut through the air like an anthem for the restless.

She grinned, her crimson bomber jacket catching the light as she threw her fist into the air. The music stopped, but the audience chanted her name, a sea of voices rising in unison. Aria lived for this moment—the chaos, the electricity, the unapologetic freedom.

Backstage, her manager leaned against a stack of crates, scrolling through their tablet with the focus of a chess grandmaster. They always looked out of place in the frenetic world of Aria Steele—a walking paradox of calm precision in a sea of glitter and noise.

"You’ve got thirty minutes before the afterparty,” they said without looking up. “We still need to talk about the charity gig next week. And the endorsement deal. And maybe—”

“Chill, boss,” Aria interrupted, swaggering into the dressing room and tossing her mic onto the table. “One thing at a time. Right now, I’m riding this high.”

Her manager raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. That was their dynamic: Aria was the storm; they were the lighthouse. They saw in her what few others could—a raw, unpolished fire that could either illuminate the world or burn it down.

Aria plopped onto the couch, grinning at her manager. “But hey, keep me grounded, will you? Just don’t ruin the fun while you’re at it.”