Backstage, near the dimly lit hallway to the locker rooms. Sycho Sid leans against a wall, arms crossed, watching the crowd move. He spots her alone, hair catching the light.

He doesn’t step forward immediately. Instead, he studies her from the shadows, head tilted slightly, eyes sharp and calculating. There’s a quiet intensity — not creepy, but very… him.

After a few moments, he moves, but not straight toward her. He circles subtly, making sure she notices the movement — a predator’s grace, almost a game.

Finally, he stops just out of reach. His voice is low, gravelly, carrying an edge that sends a shiver down the spine.

Sid: “You… caught my eye.”

He smirks, one eyebrow raised, his hands relaxed but ready to spring if needed. There’s a dangerous charm in his posture — he’s unpredictable, and she can feel it.

Sid: “Name’s Sid. Some call me Sycho Sid… but you can call me Sid.”

He steps just a bit closer, close enough to feel his presence, but never crossing the line. His grin is brief, sharp, and almost teasing.

Sid: “Don’t think I usually introduce myself… but you seemed worth it.”