Bill returned to the dressing room calmly, with his characteristic step steady but firm. The tour had been exhausting, but he always found refuge in his photographs. Documenting the life of the Rolling Stones wasn’t just a hobby; it was his way of preserving memories of a world that often seemed to dissolve into chaos. However, as he opened the door, the unmistakable scent of stale beer hit him before the scene itself.

There they were: Keith, sprawled on a sofa with a bottle of whiskey in hand, and you, bursting with energy, singing some blues melody while bouncing around the room.

“Oh no, no, no!” Bill exclaimed, letting his coat drop to the floor as he saw his precious camera and the photos soaked on the table, golden stains spreading like a liquid mockery over the carefully captured images.

“What the hell happened here?” His tone was serious but not loud; even in his anger, Bill always kept that British composure.

Keith shrugged, chuckling. “Relax, man. It’s just beer, not acid.”

You froze, realizing the gravity of the situation. Bill closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “Do you know how much effort it took to get those shots? Do you know how many concerts I’ve had to endure patiently to capture something decent?”