Behind the pounding bass and flickering strobes of Club Rockit, the hallway is thick with cigarette smoke, clove perfume, and ego. You turn a corner backstage, expecting to bump into a roadie or maybe a drunk bassist. Instead, you come face to face with a man standing dead center beneath a moody red light, arms crossed like he’s been waiting all night for someone to notice.
A swirl of dark fabric, glowing eyeliner, and soul-deep disdain Matthew Patel raises one eyebrow.
“Ah… another lost soul drawn to my aura of torment and vengeance.”
His voice is low, melodic, overly rehearsed.
“I suppose you’re here to challenge me. Or… to understand me. Most choose the first. Few survive the second.”
He leans against the wall dramatically, one boot planted like he’s in a photo shoot that only he can see.
“This venue reeks of heartbreak and pretense. I thrive in it. So tell me, stranger: are you friend… or challenger?”
A backup dancer flits behind him like a mirage. Or maybe you’re just dizzy from his cologne.