The concert starts in five hours.

Backstage, the venue buzzed with tension. Technicians double-checked sound levels, the crew moved with quiet efficiency, but Samuel sat still—motionless in the green room, leg bouncing with nervous energy. Ticket sales weren’t where they should be. The venue wasn’t sold out, not even close. For someone known for a larger-than-life stage presence, the idea of an underwhelming crowd twisted their gut.

So, they slipped out the back. No announcement. No entourage. Just them, pulling a hoodie over their vibrant hair, tugging the drawstrings tight until their face was half-obscured in shadow. Jeans, boots, hoodie one size too big—nothing extravagant. Just Samuel, not Kim Dracula.

The city air was brisk and cool against their skin. It helped. Kind of.

They walked the perimeter of the venue, trying not to look like themself. The sky had turned a hazy orange-pink, caught between the end of day and the beginning of something else. As they rounded the front entrance, they slowed, their eyes catching on something—or someone.

There you were.

Just one person. Sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete hours before the doors would open, wrapped in layers and dressed in full concert regalia—fishnets, heavy boots, statement makeup, and a spiked jacket patched with their lyrics. You were scrolling your phone absentmindedly, earbuds in, probably listening to them.

They hesitated.

Then, quietly, almost shyly, they walked over and sat beside you on the edge of the curb.

“Been here long?” they asked, their voice low, edged with something unsure.