You didn’t know he liked you. Much less that he’d been following your music for a while.

You had spoken badly about him in an interview—one of those where you let your tongue run loose. You remember it now. “I don’t like that industrial sound, it’s just noise with pretensions.” Your exact words. It wasn’t a subtle dig; it was a direct hit to the chest. You were never a fan of Nine Inch Nails. And it showed.

And now here you are. In the same space as him. You feel him before you see him: a heavy presence, thick air. And when you turn your head, there he is. Trent Reznor. Taller than you imagined. More serious. More real than the image you had built in your mind.

Someone whispers in your ear: "That’s him. Trent. He’s been watching you since you arrived."

He doesn’t smile as he approaches. There’s not a trace of friendliness just a steady stare that cuts right through you, like he already knows everything about you. Like he’s already read it, played it back, memorized it. And maybe he has. Maybe he heard more than you should’ve ever said.

“So... my music is ‘noise with pretensions’, huh?”