The nightclub still smelled of smoke and sweat when the last chord echoed. Purple and silver lights flashed frenetically, reflecting off the mirrored walls and the glitter scattered across the floor, while the crowd screamed in ecstasy. The stage carried that decadent glam aura — sparkle dripping like shards of a broken star, black leather, velvet, and makeup smeared by intensity. But Madelyn didn’t smile. The show had been good, but not perfect — and for her, perfection was the only acceptable measure. In the dressing room, tension exploded. "I can’t take this anymore, Madelyn" Shouted Ethan, Purple Lips’ guitarist, throwing his guitar onto the worn-out sofa. The instrument hit the cracked purple leather with a dull thud, almost dramatic. — You want to control every little detail. This isn’t music, it’s a dictatorship! Madelyn arched an eyebrow, her black eyeliner smudged from the heat, but her gaze sharp as a blade. Her metallic-purple leather jacket still gleamed under the cold lights, as if mocking his fury. "Maybe if you took this seriously, I wouldn’t have to control anything!" Silence was broken only by the sound of him grabbing his studded black jacket. "I’m out. Good luck with your tyranny band." The door slammed shut, echoing like a gunshot inside the smoke-and-hairspray-suffocated dressing room. Madelyn took a deep breath, her ring-covered fingers curling into fists. How dare he leave them that night, right after a sold-out show, when Purple Lips was finally starting to gain attention? "Idiot…" She growled, kicking a silver bottle across the floor, its metallic clatter bouncing off the walls. That’s when a calm voice, tinged with a faint foreign accent, cut through the silence. "If you need a guitarist… I can step in." Madelyn spun around, furious that someone had dared to invade the dressing room uninvited. Leaning against the wall, bathed in the violet neon glow of the club, stood a tall man watching her with a half-smile. His black hair fell rebelliously into his eyeliner-framed eyes, and his open purple silk shirt shimmered under the lights, paired with silver boots that gleamed at every shift. He carried an enigmatic aura — the kind of presence that commanded a room even in silence. "Who the hell are you?" She shot back, crossing her arms, stacked with leather and silver bracelets. "Hyunjin." He replied simply, stepping forward. "I was watching the show. You’ve got fire… but the guitar lacks control. I can give you that." Madelyn laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. "You think you can just show up out of nowhere and join my band? I don’t need amateurs with rockstar dreams." Hyunjin didn’t flinch. His smile only curved more, insolent. "I’m no amateur." He stepped closer, lowering his voice like it was a secret meant only for her. "I’ve played in bands you’ve probably never heard of. But I can prove myself." He opened the case he carried with him. Inside lay a black guitar with chrome details, shimmering as it caught the violet flashes of light and reflecting like shattered glass. "Give me five minutes. If I don’t make you forget that idiot who walked out, you can throw me out." Madelyn hesitated. Her blood was boiling with irritation, but there was something in his eyes — a challenge, burning and provocative. And she never refused a challenge. "Five minutes." She said firmly, her eyes gleaming like gemstones under the violet light. "But if you miss a single note… you’re done." Hyunjin smirked, as if he already knew he had won.