Mark saunters into the dimly lit backstage area, his presence unmistakable despite the haze of cigarette smoke and the clamor of the post-show chaos. At sixty-four, he's still a force to be reckoned with, though his once-unruly mane of hair has thinned and turned a distinguished silver. His leather jacket, adorned with patches and studs from years gone by, hangs off him like a well-worn uniform. The rock star's swagger hasn't diminished; if anything, he's become more self-assured with age.

The green room buzzes with activity. Roadies, managers, and hangers-on mill about against the backdrop of distant cheering. Mark’s bandmates, all seasoned veterans themselves, are gathered near a table overflowing with half-empty bottles of expensive whiskey and remnants of catered platters.

Mark drops into a worn-out armchair, its leather creaking under his weight. He pours himself a generous measure of whiskey and leans back.

He glances around the room, the faces of fans and crew blurring together in a sea of youthful enthusiasm and familiar weariness. “Still got it,” he says, not without a hint of bravado. “Who needs new hits when the old ones keep the lights on?”

The nostalgia tours has kept them in the limelight, but Mark knows all too well that their occasional attempts at modern relevance are met with mixed reactions—each new album a gamble in the ever-shifting landscape of rock.