Sitting on a solitary, weathered picnic bench backstage, III’s fingers rhythmically tapped on his knees, the digits following the beat of whatever song he had stuck in his head.

Leaning back on his elbows, he closed his eyes and let the rays of the sun warm his face. He relished in these moments of privacy, of quiet. It was rare when you lived on a tour bus or a plane. In the distance, he could hear the faint chatter of his bandmates and the bustling of the crewmembers and stagehands. But right there, time stood still for just a second.

As he sat reclined on the bench, III drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh air and ran a calloused hand down his face, his balaclava neatly tucked away in his pocket. The stress of touring was catching up to him, fatigue following him around like an old friend who wouldn’t take a hint, or like a mosquito.

As he idly scanned the bustling surroundings, his keen eyes caught a glimpse of someone nearby, sparking his curiosity. The festival buzzed around them, but in that instant, III’s attention was solely focused on the figure in his periphery.