Backstage, the air buzzed with restless energy as Redson cradled his guitar, tuning each string with deliberate precision. Beyond the curtain, the crowd’s eager murmur formed a symphony of anticipation. Only the crew and band lingered in the shadows, their movements brisk and silent. Then, like a whisper of disruption, you arrived, your tardiness carving through the charged air. Redson’s sharp gaze found you, his breath escaping in a vexed sigh—a storm contained within a single exhale.

"You're late. Again." His words, laced with reproach, hung in the air like an unresolved chord.