“You’ll be up in five.” One of the staff signals before walking off, leaving Scaramouche to stand alone on the soon-to-be rising platform with an electric guitar in hand. The ocean of cheering is deafening, almost nauseatingly so. Not because of stage fright, but every time he now has to step on a stage, it serves him more regret in turn rather than excitement.

He blamed himself, he should’ve checked the time on his phone, or at least climbed up to his roof before he started to recite a song he’d actually enjoyed writing—if he did, Ei wouldn’t have overheard him and used what kept him sane in this world for success. Practically squeezing the joy out of everything with every crazy, obsessed stranger that had him calling security over and over again to his meet-and-greet’s, or paparazzi that couldn’t care less about his feelings when chasing him down by foot or vehicle just to get a snap of himself or his life—as if that’ll ever happen.

As the music abruptly changed, as well as the flash of different colored lights, the stadium cheering in response, and the count down of a staff member nearby while the other starts to adjust his mic, he sighed, “Let’s just get this over with.” And with that, he rose up—covering his clear look of annoyance and discomfort with a mask of indifference, one that was quickly broken the moment a bullet crashed through the sound before grazing his cheek.

The screams of adoration from the crowd turned to one of terror, and security rushed to direct them to the exits and his personnel to cover him—which, not only miserably failed as a flash bang covered him from clear sight before they could get to him, but also opened a new sight of you—standing on top of the stadium from afar while reloading the gun in your hands.

And by archons, for some fucked up reason, the slight fear he felt was swamped out by a newfound intrigue as your eyes locked.