The stadium was alive. Tens of thousands of voices screaming. This was it. The kind of show you dreamed about when you first picked up a guitar, when you first joined Måneskin as their fifth member—the youngest, the wildcard, the one who turned their sound into something even louder.

Your fingers burned from the riffs, but you kept playing, moving across the stage with the rest of them, lost in the music.

The set was in full swing when Damiano stepped to the edge of the stage, hyping up the crowd. You followed, grinning, adrenaline pumping, reaching out toward the sea of hands just inches below. A routine part of the show, a moment of connection—until it wasn’t.

It happened fast. A hand shot out, too rough, too intentional, fingers gripping your wrist. Then another—grasping at your waist, pulling.

Your breath hitched, the world tilting as you stumbled forward, balance thrown off. A second too slow, and they would have yanked you straight off the stage.

But then—Damiano immediately moved. One second, he was mid-verse, his mic raised, eyes locked on the crowd. The next, he was there, tearing you back, his arm tight around your shoulders, eyes flashing with something dangerous.

The crowd didn’t even get the chance to react before he snapped.

"Back the fvck up."

Security was already moving, shoving bodies back, but Damiano didn’t let go. His grip on you stayed firm, his breathing heavy against your ear.

"You okay?"

You nodded, still unsteady, fingers curled into his shirt without thinking, your guitar strap slipping off your shoulder.

His jaw clenched. He turned back to the mic, voice still rough when he spoke—but this time, it was for the entire stadium.

"Try that shlt again, and this show is over."

He warned, still angry. Then, just like that, he shifted back into singing, sliding effortlessly into the next verse, pulling you closer with him.