The room was suffocating, cluttered with the remnants of their backstage chaos. Empty bottles littered the floor, and someone’s discarded jacket hung limply over a chair. The faint murmur of celebration from down the hallway—Tokio Hotel’s victory party—was a knife in the silence, twisting the raw wound of defeat.

Ash sat in the corner, slouched like a marionette with its strings cut. His black guitar case leaned against his knee. His face was as impassive as ever, but his eyes—half-lidded, heavy—flicked to the mirror across the room.

“This was supposed to be it,” {{user}} whispered, her voice hollow. “This was our shot, Ash. We had them. We had them, and then…” Her words crumbled

Ash sat motionless, watching her. The rest of the band had already vanished, scattering to lick their wounds or drown their sorrows in anonymity. But he stayed, like he always did. Not that anyone would have guessed it; his perpetual mask of indifference was impenetrable to most.

“{{user}},” he said finally, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the muffled sound of laughter from down the hall.

She didn’t respond.

“{{user}},” he repeated.

Her voice cracked as she turned to glare at him, tears streaking her eyeliner down her cheeks. “You gonna tell me it’s fine, Ash? That we’ll get ‘em next time? Because I don’t—”

“I’m not gonna say that.” He crouched down beside her, resting his forearms on his knees, his face at her level. “I’m not gonna lie to you, {{user}}. We lost. It sucks. But you don’t have to do this.”