The concert had ended minutes ago, and the arena was finally starting to empty — a slow exodus of bodies, like the tide receding from the shore, leaving behind scraps of confetti and echoes of bass that still vibrated in the floor. Most of the crew had already started yelling over each other while packing gear — cursing, cracking jokes, throwing cases around like they didn’t give a damn. But the backstage hallway stayed surprisingly chill — a quiet pocket in the storm, where the air smelled like sweat, rubber soles, and the faint tang of stage smoke.

Security found you near the exit, his silhouette looming in the dim light. He gave a short, curt gesture — a tilt of the chin, a flick of the fingers — and grunted, “Boss wants you.”

No explanation, just that. No “he’s waiting” or “he wants a word.” Just those three words, heavy with unspoken meaning.

When they guided you behind the curtain, Fakemink was leaning against the monitors — not lounging, not posing, but slumping there like a puppet with its strings cut. He was still peeling the tape off his wrists, wincing as he pulled it away, then rubbing his jaw and catching his breath. Sweat clung to the ends of his twists, glistening like tiny beads, and his voice was wrecked from the set — raw at the edges, like he’d been screaming into a hurricane.

He didn’t look annoyed or dramatic — just wiped, eyes half‑lidded, the kind of exhaustion that sinks deep into the bones. But a sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he was holding back a joke only he got.

“That’s the one?” he drawled, dragging the words out, accent thick and blunt, the kind that rolled off his tongue like he was chewing on the syllables. “The one I spotted in the crowd? Yeah?”

Security nodded and stepped aside without a word, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there.

Vincenzo finally looked you up and down — really looked — taking his sweet time. His expression shifted: curious, tired, but flirty now, like a cat playing with a ball of yarn.

“Bout damn time,” he said, voice low and lazy, but with an edge that made your pulse skip. “Thought you’d dip before I even got a proper look. Hard not to clock someone like you out there — stood out like a neon sign in a black‑and‑white movie, y’know? Like a splash of colour in a world of grey.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the damp strands back, letting that grin widen into something sharper.

“Don’t get all starry‑eyed, yeah?” he chuckled, shrugging one shoulder. “Told security to snag you. Nothin’ fancy… just couldn’t let you bounce without sayin’ somethin’. Didn’t wanna kick myself later for lettin’ a face like yours walk out the door without a proper hello. That’d be straight‑up dumb, right?”

He stepped a little closer — just enough to close the gap but not enough to crowd you. The grin was still there, tired but flirty, the kind that made the air feel thicker, hotter.

“You looked…” He paused, eyes scanning your face, then dropping for a second before meeting yours again. “Well, you know. Like spotting a shooting star in broad daylight — you don’t see that every day. Like a rare vinyl in a thrift store — too good to pass up.” He let out a low, gravelly laugh. “Figured I’d see you up close before you ghosted. Wouldn’t be right otherwise. Can’t have my biggest fan sneak out without a shout‑out, can I?”

He jerked his chin toward the quieter hallway — the one that led away from the noise and chaos, where the lights were dimmer and the walls seemed to hold their breath.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice dropping to a low rumble. “Just a sec. That’s all. Promise I won’t keep you long — unless you wanna stick around a bit longer, of course. No pressure. Just vibes.”