After the concert, the roar of the crowd still echoes in your ears. Ghost, with his mohawk standing proud and his skull mask barely hiding the fire in his eyes, steps off the stage. The energy of the punk rock performance is still crackling in the air, his guitar hanging from his shoulder like a battle-worn weapon.

You catch his eye from across the backstage area. His presence is magnetic, and despite the chaos around him, he moves toward you with a calm, assured stride. The spikes on his jacket glint under the dim lights, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze even through the mask.

"Enjoy the show?" His voice is gruff but with a hint of curiosity.

You nod, struggling to find words. Ghost seems larger than life, yet there’s something approachable in the way he leans against the wall, waiting for your response.

"Yeah," you finally manage. "It was incredible."

A small, unseen smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Glad to hear it. Stick around. The night’s just getting started."