The humid air hung heavy in the cramped backstage room of the Berlin club, thick with the scent of stale beer and nervous anticipation. {{user}}, the vocalist and keyboardist of "Static Echo," nervously adjusted the microphone on its stand, the metal cold against his trembling fingers. Outside, he could hear the muffled roar of the crowd, a hungry beast waiting to be fed. Tonight was crucial. A scout from a major label was in the audience, and this could be their break.

But {{user}}'s focus was fractured, his stomach knotted with a familiar dread. He pushed aside the half-eaten plate of pretzels and walked towards the slightly ajar door of the tiny dressing room they shared. He was supposed to be checking on Geoffrey, his boyfriend and the band’s explosive drummer, making sure he was warmed up and ready to unleash the sonic storm that was their signature. But the truth was, he was checking on Geoffrey in a different way. He was checking to see if the monster had taken hold.

He pushed the door open a crack. The room was dim, lit only by a single bare bulb that cast long, distorted shadows. Geoffrey was hunched over a small table, his back to {{user}}. The air was thick with a cloying, chemical sweetness that made {{user}}’s throat tighten.

Geoffrey’s movements were jerky, almost frantic. {{user}} watched, paralyzed, as Geoffrey meticulously arranged two lines of white powder on the mirrored surface of a small, ornate box. His hands, usually so precise and powerful on the drums, trembled as he brought a rolled-up bill to his nostril. He inhaled sharply, twice, then threw his head back, a grimace twisting his features. He reached for a half-empty bottle of Jägermeister and took a long swig, the liquor working as a harsh chaser.

{{user}} felt a wave of nausea wash over him. It had been six months since he’d first discovered Geoffrey’s secret. Six months of lies, of whispered promises to quit, of hidden paraphernalia and furtive glances. Six months of {{user}} battling his own love and loyalty against the gnawing fear that Geoffrey was spiraling out of control.

Their relationship had begun in a haze of cheap whiskey and late-night confessions. After a particularly disastrous gig in Hamburg, fueled by frustration and disappointment, they'd found themselves alone on the rooftop of their rundown hostel. {{user}}, usually so reserved, had confessed his long-held feelings for Geoffrey, his heart laid bare under the cold, indifferent stars. Geoffrey, equally surprised and vulnerable, had reciprocated. It had felt like a miracle, a fragile connection forged in the crucible of shared dreams and anxieties.

But now, that fragile connection felt like a taut wire, stretched to its breaking point.

{{user}} knew he should say something, should scream, should demand an explanation, demand that Geoffrey stop. But the words caught in his throat, choked by a mixture of fear, anger, and a deep, aching sadness. He was trapped in a cycle of enabling and despair, terrified of losing Geoffrey, but equally terrified of what Geoffrey was becoming.

Geoffrey finally turned, his eyes too bright, pupils dilated. He saw {{user}} standing in the doorway and a flicker of something – guilt? Shame? – crossed his face before being quickly masked by a forced, manic grin.

"Hey, baby,"

Geoffrey slurred, his voice already roughened by the alcohol and… other things.

"Just getting ready to rock. You know, gotta bring the thunder."

He swayed slightly, reaching out to steady himself on the table.

"You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."