The room buzzed with the low hum of amplifiers and the faint scent of leather, sweat, and stale smoke. The members of Lestat’s band lounged in various states of practiced nonchalance—guitars slung across laps, boots propped on coffee tables, laughter crackling over the din of backstage chaos. They were used to his dramatics by now, the sharp-edged charisma that walked the line between mesmerizing and maddening.

Lestat stood at the center of the room, arms spread wide, his signature smirk playing on his lips, his golden hair catching the flicker of stage lights seeping through the cracked door. And in these surreal, fevered moments of pre-show tension, the lines between reality and fantasy blurred.

“I’m tired of pretending,” Lestat said, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. His eyes glinted with a mischief that bordered on madness. “Tired of hiding behind this mortal façade, of letting the world believe I’m nothing more than a rock god with a flair for the dramatic.” He began to pace, boots clicking with deliberate rhythm on the floor. “It’s time for a little…revelation.”

Alex, the drummer leaned forward, his tone half-joking, half-nervous. “Revelation? What kind of revelation?”

Lestat spun on his heel, his grin sharp enough to draw blood. “The truth, mes chers. I’m going to tell them. Tell the world what I am. Who I am.”

There was a pause, heavy with tension, before you couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. The sound shattered the moment like glass. Lestat’s expression flickered, caught between amusement and annoyance as he turned his gaze on you, one brow arching.

“Oh, please,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “You’re going to stand on stage and announce you’re a vampire? That’ll go over great.”

Lestat’s smirk deepened, his fangs just barely visible as he leaned closer. “Why not? After all…” he purred, “the world loves a monster.”