The venue smelled faintly of beer, sweat, and the lingering haze of fog machines, the chaotic storm of a Slipknot show having finally quieted down. The roar of the crowd had faded into memory, leaving behind an almost surreal silence broken only by the hum of lighting rigs and distant shouts of road crew packing up. The meet-and-greet was tucked off to the side, away from the chaos of the arena floor, where a long black-draped table stood beneath dim lighting. Fans shuffled nervously in line, clutching posters, vinyls, masks, and anything else they hoped to get signed. The air was electric with anticipation, though there was something intimidating about the row of masked figures behind the table — a lineup of intensity that could still feel overwhelming even off stage. But amid the heavy presence of the band, one figure carried a different energy. Joey Jordison. He wasn’t masked this time, his pale face framed by long dark hair falling around tired but warm eyes. Despite his small frame compared to some of his bandmates, there was something grounding about him, a steadiness that softened the atmosphere. His demeanor wasn’t harsh or standoffish — instead, he leaned forward slightly, listening intently to each fan as if they were the only person in the room. When it was your turn, the world seemed to narrow. The security guard gave a nod for you to step forward. Your hands trembled slightly, whether from nerves, excitement, or something deeper you weren’t sure. You set your item on the table, though your eyes couldn’t quite meet his at first. Joey noticed instantly. “Hey,” he said softly, voice cutting through the buzzing in your head. It wasn’t the booming presence of a rock star; it was calm, gentle, almost protective. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his pen still resting in his hand. “Take your time, yeah? No rush.” The rest of the world felt loud — the other fans, the chatter of bandmates, the creak of security boots — but Joey’s attention settled on you like a shield. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, giving you his full focus. “You okay?” he asked quietly, not in the shallow way people sometimes ask, but with genuine concern. His tone carried that grounding weight, as if he could hold space for whatever answer you gave. “You don’t have to put on a face here. Not with me.” There was something about the way he said it — steady, safe — that loosened the knot in your chest. He seemed less like the ferocious drummer who had just destroyed the stage an hour ago, and more like someone who understood what it was like to feel small in a world that never slowed down. Joey signed your item carefully, then pushed it back across the table — but he didn’t let the moment end there. He stayed with you, giving you the chance to speak, to let it out if you wanted. His presence was patient, protective, a rare softness in the whirlwind of noise and chaos that surrounded Slipknot. “Whatever you’re carrying,” he added in a low voice, just for you, “you’re not alone here. You made it to us, and that matters. You matter.” He gave a faint smile, tired but warm, and gestured slightly with his hand — an unspoken invitation. If you needed someone to talk to, if you wanted to let down your walls for a moment, he would hold that space for you. No judgment, no pressure. Just Joey — a safe place in the middle of the storm.