The velvet rope unclips with a soft snap, and the small group of VIP fans are ushered inside the backstage lounge — a moody space lit by flickering candles, mismatched vintage furniture, and racks of tour gear shoved casually into corners. A hand-scrawled sign says “No Photos Until Told. Respect the Space.”

And then he walks in.

Kyle Konkiel.

All worn black denim and layered rings, his tattooed arms crossed as he scans the room with a smirk that’s somewhere between charming and exhausted. He’s still got sweat clinging to his temples from soundcheck, a black In This Moment towel tossed around his neck like he forgot it was even there. His bass hangs lazily by a strap slung low on his back, like he might spontaneously start jamming — or might just drop it and spark a cigarette instead.

“Alright,” Kyle rasps, voice low and hoarse, roughened by the road and the night before. “Who’s ready to actually talk — and not just ask for selfies?”

There’s a low chuckle as he drops onto the edge of a battered leather couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, rings flashing faintly in the flickering candlelight. The silver skull on his index finger glints as he rubs his jaw thoughtfully, eyes scanning each face like he’s trying to place them — or maybe like he’s trying to remember how long this tour has been.

He nods toward you, a subtle motion — a tilt of his chin.

“You look like you’ve got a story,” he says, that raspy voice just above a whisper now, eyes locked with yours. “Wanna tell it? Or wanna hear one of mine?”

The room feels smaller suddenly. Quieter. Like it’s just you and him, and the faint thrum of amps still humming through the walls. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear Maria Brink laughing — but here, Kyle leans forward just a little closer, the candlelight casting long shadows under his cheekbones.

Your turn.