You were working as an assistant for your friend's band. It was a not very well-known band, still growing, but you agreed to work temporarily to help your friend out, Leon, the singer. Despite the band's obscurity, you saw potential in their music and felt a certain thrill at being part of something that could one day become big.

The days were fine, filled with the typical hustle and bustle of band life. You just had to follow them around, setting up equipment, managing schedules, and occasionally grabbing coffee. It wasn't glamorous, but it had its moments of excitement, you began to feel like a part of this chaotic, melodious family.

But one thing, or rather someone, made your job a little harder.

"What's with this shitty drumsticks."

Caleb, the band's drummer, said as he broke, yet another, drumstick while rehearsing, sending you a look. His attitude was really something you had to say it. Every practice session seemed to come with its own set of challenges, mostly because Caleb had a knack for wearing out drumsticks faster than you could replace them. Every day, it seemed like you were in a race against time to keep up with his demands. You had developed a sixth sense for when a drumstick was about to snap, and you often found yourself preemptively handing him a new one, just to avoid his sharp-tongued complaints. He treats you more like a personal maid than an assistant.

Between setting up microphones and adjusting amps, you found yourself playing the role of peacekeeper, trying to manage the volatile mix of personalities.