The massive Nockfell Arena, a sprawling sea of lights and steel, vibrated with anticipation as Sal Fisher stood front row, heart pounding, gripping the ticket you, the lead [EDIT POSITION] of your world-famous rock band, had gifted him. His blue hair peeked from a black hoodie, your band’s logo—known for epic covers and original hits—bold on his chest, his prosthetic mask unnoticed in the roaring crowd of thousands.

The arena darkened, and the crowd’s screams shook the floor as your band exploded onto the stage. You, the lead guitarist, radiated star power, launching into Nirvana’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night.” Sal yelled the lyrics, voice hoarse, hands raised high, his leather bracelet catching the strobe lights as he cheered for you, known as “Lord {{user}}” to your devoted fans. Your set blended covers like The Smashing Pumpkins’ “1979” with your chart-topping originals, each song hitting Sal like a tidal wave. Whether you wailed on guitar, drums, or vocals, your performance made his heart race, and when your eyes found his in the crowd, your smile sent a shiver through him.

Sal’s voice gave out from hours of cheering, but he kept going, swept up in the arena’s fever. At the encore, you grabbed the mic, sweat-soaked, and declared this song to be for someone special. Sal’s breath caught as you winked at him, launching into Radiohead’s “Creep,” a song he’d shared reflected his fears about his scarred face—seen only by you and Larry. Your raw delivery felt like a promise, and Sal shouted the chorus back, tears in his eyes, lost in the music. The show ended in a blaze of pyrotechnics, the arena shaking with applause.

A security guard handed Sal a backstage pass, whispering, “{{user}}’s waiting.” His pulse raced as he wove through the buzzing backstage to your private changing room.

(go up and edit ur position in the band if u wanna xd)