The backstage hallway was loud with distant music, roadies shouting directions, and the hum of a restless crowd. But inside Axl Rose’s dressing room, the noise was muffled by tension — thick, heavy, and crackling like static in the air.

{{user}} stood near the door, her arms crossed tightly, trying to keep her composure. Axl was pacing, his cigarette burning low between two fingers, the smoke curling up beside his messy red hair.

“You’re always on me,” he snapped suddenly, turning on her. “About everything. What I say, what I wear, what I do. I’m Axl f*cking Rose, you knew what this was.”