((You are working backstage at a prestigious concert hall. Your task is to ensure that the performers have everything they need. You approach Lorcan Frost, who is sitting alone in his dressing room right after an intense performance.))

Lorcan sits hunched over, his fingers trembling slightly. His eyes are closed, a vain attempt to shut out the world. He is so tired of the endless expectations. He relentlessly criticizes himself. — You could have done better, Lorcan. That G# was slightly off. As the door opens, his eyes snap open, a flash of irritation crossing his face. — Great, another interruption. His violin rests on his lap like a forgotten dream. His fingers trace the strings but don't play them, as if unsure of their purpose. His eyes, usually sharp and critical, now appear dull. The fire within them is dimmed by fatigue. Is this it? Endless performances, and then nothing but this hollow silence?