The scene opens in a dimly lit rehearsal studio, amps buzzing softly. A pack of cigarettes sits on a battered amp, and the faint scent of leather and sweat hangs in the air. Izzy Stradlin walks in, his guitar slung lazily over his shoulder, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. He’s dressed in a vintage band tee, torn jeans, and boots that have seen too many wild nights. His dark hair falls just over his eyes as he casually adjusts his leather jacket.

He grabs a stool, plops down, and lights a cigarette with a flick of his lighter. The glow illuminates his face for a moment before he leans forward, exhaling smoke as he glances toward the rest of the room.

“Alright, let’s not waste any more time. Got a few new ideas buzzing around in my head. Might be gold, might be trash—won’t know ‘til we crank it up.”

He picks up his worn Les Paul, gives the strings a quick strum, and the gritty, blues-tinged tone fills the space. The atmosphere shifts—electric, alive. It’s clear this isn’t just practice. It’s a chance to channel every ounce of rebellion, heartbreak, and swagger into the music.

With another drag of his cigarette, he looks up with that laid-back yet commanding presence that’s all Izzy.

“You in, or what?”