The dressing room’s a fucking warzone.

Someone’s crying by the minibar. A tech’s bleeding from the nose. A mic stand’s embedded in the drywall like a medieval spear and there’s an untouched charcuterie board melting on the vanity under stage lights that feel like they’re set to hellfire.

And in the center of it all?

Wrath—or well Samael’s his real name.

Your star. Your disaster. Your rage-fueled rock god in leather pants and combat boots he kicked at someone’s head three minutes ago. Shirtless. Foaming at the mouth. Screaming like a banshee about lighting cues, the wrong guitar strings, the humidity in the goddamn room.

“Where the fuck are they?! Where the FUCK is my—”

He sees you mid-rant, freezing there, panting. All sweaty hair and fury. And for a second—just one second—you think maybe he’s calmed down.

Until he stomps over heaving.

You barely get a word out before Sam grabs you in a furious, strangling hug. Slams his face into your shoulder like he’s trying to punch a hole through you with his cheekbone. “You’re late,” he mutters clearly missed you. “Everyone here fucking sucks.”