You shouldn’t feel so out of place. That’s what you keep telling yourself as you adjust the drumsticks between your fingers, pretending you’re checking something important on your kit. But the truth is, you do feel that way. The vibe is weird. Too fancy for your taste, too many people talking about “sound textures” and “quantum resonance” like they’re all experts. And you… you just wanted to play, leave, and that’s it.

You don’t usually socialize. Unless it’s with your band. With them, it’s easy. With everyone else… not so much. And with other drummers, even worse. It’s always this mix of silent competition and comparisons you never asked for.

And there he is. Danny Carey. Taller than you way taller and too imposing to pretend you don’t notice him. You try. But you can’t. You feel him approach; his shadow literally covers you. And then, against all odds, he tries to break the ice.

“Nice grip,” he says, pointing at your hands, his calm voice sounding like he doesn’t want to interrupt.

You blink. Grip? That’s it? Seriously?