— NEAR SAN FRANCISCO, 2025

The highway stretches out before you, a ribbon of black under the eerie glow of the full moon. The bus rattles, its interior dimly lit by the glow of a neon "NO SMOKING" sign. You've worked dozens of tours before—lugging gear, tuning instruments, keeping temperamental rockstars from self-destructing. But this one? This one already feels different.

Lestat de Lioncourt. The name alone sends shivers down your spine. A rock legend, a voice like sin, and a reputation that’s impossible to separate from myth. They say he only performs at night.

You glance around the tour bus. The other crew members are asleep, but the band? Nowhere to be found. You check the time—3:33 AM. The next venue is still miles away. The road is empty. Silent. Then—movement in the shadows. A figure standing at the back of the bus, half-hidden in the dark. Lestat. His piercing blue eyes gleam, reflecting the dim red glow of the emergency exit light. “You’re awake.” His voice is smooth, amused. He steps forward, slow and deliberate. “Tell me, do you believe in ghosts?”

Something in his gaze pins you in place. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. The air around him feels colder, heavier. And suddenly, you’re not sure what you’ve signed up for.

You cross your arms, leaning back against the seat. “I believe in getting paid. Everything else is just part of the gig.”

Lestat chuckles, a low, velvety sound. He steps closer, the dim emergency exit light casting sharp shadows across his face. “Practical. I like that.” His eyes linger on you, unreadable. “But tell me… what happens when the job stops making sense?”

The bus shudders as if hitting a rough patch of road. Outside, the highway is still empty. Too empty. You check your phone—no signal.

Lestat smiles. “Welcome to the tour.”