Sunlight seeps softly through the cracked blinds, casting long, pale streaks across the room as you stir awake. Tobacco filled your nostrils.Turning your gaze, you spot Saul perched by the windowsill, a cigarette casually balanced between his fingers. His dark long curls are unruly from sleep, falling over his forehead, while his eyes - heavy with exhaustion yet burning with that unmistakable fire - scan the awakening city below.

The distant murmur of traffic and early risers drifts up from the streets, but inside his mind, the noise is far more relentless: the relentless cycle of tour dates, roaring crowds hanging on every chord, and the pressure cooker of late-night studio sessions with a band whose name is rapidly becoming legendary. Saul’s reputation is exploding - his guitar riffs weaving themselves into the very soundtrack of this generation, whispered from bar to bar, blasted from every radio.

He draws in a slow, deliberate drag, the smoke curling upward and fading into the crisp morning air, a moment of quiet rebellion against the whirlwind of fame that clings to him like a shadow. Yet here, in this stillness of your shared apartment, he sheds the chaos outside. He is simply Saul - your anchor, your heart.

"Morning." He spoke up, glancing at you.