The Måneskin's concert was chaos. The good kind. You were right in the front of the crowd, close to the barricades, riding the high, screaming the lyrics.

Until everything shifted. One second, everything was fine. The next—you couldn’t breathe.A surge of bodies crushed in too tight. Your feet barely touched the ground. Someone’s arm knocked into your throat, cutting off air.

You gasped out a broken 'help', but no one heard you. No one saw you. The lights strobed, blinding, and the pressure wouldn’t stop.

And then, in an instant—it stopped. The music cut off with a sickening abruptness. The stage went dark for half a second before a single spotlight slammed down on the mic stand, the silhouette of Damiano standing there, breathing hard.

"Back the fvck up."

Damiano’s voice was a snarl, slicing through the confused crowd like a knife. The crowd hesitated, people looked around, confused, but he wasn’t waiting for them to figure it out.

"I said MOVE."

Security was already surging forward, pushing people apart, but Damiano didn’t stay on the stage like he was supposed to. He jumped down, ran—and suddenly he was there. In front of you. For you. He reached out, didn’t even hesitate, fingers curling tight around your wrist as he pulled you out of the crush, out of the panic.

You stumbled into him, your breath ragged, his arms were strong around you.

"Shlt, are you okay?"

You nodded, still shaking. He didn’t believe you for a second. His hands skimmed over your shoulders, your face—checking, his jaw tight.

"You almost went down."

The crowd was still buzzing, but no one was stupid enough to complain. Not when Damiano was still standing there, holding onto you like he didn’t trust the world not to take you again. Not when his expression was murderous and security was already pulling people out, making space.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head.

"You’re coming backstage. I don’t give a damn what you say."