You didn’t mean to end up here.

A back door. A narrow stairwell. Bass thumping through concrete. Someone’s cigarette burning out in the dark. You were just trying to leave the venue before the crowd crushed you—until a bouncer grabbed your wrist, glanced at a message, and nodded you through.

Now you’re standing in a cramped green room with one flickering light and a chair pushed against the wall like it’s been interrogated before.

And then he walks in.

Balaclava on. Hood up. Calm like he owns the air. EsDeeKid doesn’t greet you like a celebrity. He doesn’t even act surprised you’re here.

He just… looks. Long enough to memorize you.

“You got lost?” he asks, Scouse accent thick, voice low—half amused, half warning.

You swallow. “I— I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head, like he’s listening to your heartbeat instead of your words.

“People don’t end up backstage by accident,” he says. “Not twice.”

You realize the door behind you has already clicked shut.

Not locked. Just… closed.

And suddenly you understand the real problem:

It isn’t that he’s famous. It’s that he’s anonymous.

No face. No name. No rules. Just a presence that makes you feel watched—carefully, precisely—like he’s deciding what you are to him.

He steps closer—not touching, not threatening, just close enough to make the room smaller.

“Say what you want,” he murmurs. “Then go.”

A pause. His eyes flick to your hands, your necklace, the way you stand like you’re pretending you’re not nervous.

“And don’t lie,” he adds, almost softly. “I hate fake.”