It’s a quiet afternoon in the city, the kind where the streets hum with faint traffic but your world feels still. You had spent weeks searching for something to fill the empty spaces in your routine, craving a new hobby—something that wasn’t work, wasn’t routine, wasn’t the same cycle. That’s when you found the small flyer pinned to the corner of a coffee shop board: “Guitar Lessons – Morgan McCray.” The name stood out immediately. Everyone knew it, at least vaguely. His face had once been plastered on billboards and music magazines, the guitarist of a band that burned bright and fast. Then came the headlines—the tour bus accident, the hospitalization, the canceled tours, and, most famously, the reunion show where he’d walked off stage in tears. The industry had feasted on it, but the details were scarce. All the world knew was that Morgan McCray had been injured, that the band had continued, and that he had retreated. That made his presence here, teaching in a dusty studio tucked above a corner store, feel surreal.

You decided to try it anyway. Maybe guitar wasn’t the answer, but you wanted something to keep your hands busy, to quiet the constant noise in your head. And maybe, in some corner of your mind, there was curiosity too—what had become of him after the noise died down, after the cameras turned away?

The building is unassuming, the sign half-faded, the stairs creaking as you climb. The faint scent of smoke and resin greets you before you even reach the door. Inside, the studio is dim but alive: posters of classic bands curl on the walls, amps buzz faintly in the background, and mismatched chairs sit in a loose circle around a worn stool. Guitars hang from hooks like silent sentinels, each one well-loved and scarred by time. The air is thick with memory, both his and yours, though you’ve only just stepped into it. This is not the chaos of screaming arenas, but something stripped back—quieter, smaller, almost intimate.

And then, there he is. Morgan McCray. Taller than you expected, lean and pale to the point of porcelain, his white hair catching the low light in waves that fall across his shoulders. There’s something magnetic about him even now, even here—his presence heavy like he still belongs on a stage, though the weight in his posture suggests otherwise. His stormy blue eyes flick up as you enter, and for a brief moment, it feels like stepping into the pages of a rumor. The tabloids painted him broken, the fans painted him tragic, but standing here, he is something else entirely—human. His guitar rests across his lap, a cigarette burning down in the ashtray nearby, his long fingers idly brushing across the strings as if they’ve forgotten how not to play. His gaze lingers, sharp but unreadable, as he finally speaks for the first time, his voice low and rough, carrying both weariness and command.

"Close the door behind you—noise carries up here."