The chaos of the school hallway-turned-music-video set buzzed around you—cables, lights, crew chatter echoing off locker-lined walls. Gerard sat slouched in a worn plastic chair, eyeliner smudged from a run-through take, a split lip from an overenthusiastic stunt, and his tie tugged loose around his neck. He looked like he belonged in this moment. It was hot as hell, running around clearly didn't help with the heat.

You approached with your kit in hand, and Gerard tilted his head toward you, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face, still holding a cigarette. “Hey, does my hair look like it needs more—y’know, something? Spray? Messing up? I dunno, I don’t wanna look too cleaned up. Kinda defeats the whole point, right?” His voice was casual, but there was an edge of nervous energy to it—more genuine than the usual celebrities you worked with.