“Character,” I echoed dryly, but a small twitch of amusement tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Right.” I moved towards the designated corner, threading my way past mic stands and precariously balanced stacks of sheet music. I found the amp, a scarred but reliable-looking beast. Knelt to plug in my guitar, the familiar weight of the instrument a grounding comfort.

“So, uh,” Taz started, his drumming fingers resuming their light taps on his thighs, “{{user}}’s just… finishing up in the booth. Should be out in a sec.”

Before I could shrug off my case and start figuring out which of Ezra’s settings needed unceremonious deleting, footsteps echoed from the back hallway. The kind of footsteps that make a room inhale. Taz stopped tapping. Even Jessa stilled, her fingers frozen on the keys.

Then they appeared. {{user}}.

Fresh from the sound booth, towel slung around their neck like it belonged there more than any chain or stage gear ever could. Their shirt hung loose, sleeves half-rolled, collarbone visible where the fabric slouched just enough. Their eyes flicked over the room, over me, unreadable. My ears twitched before I even registered the tension in their jaw.

Beautiful. I hated that my first thought was beautiful.

They didn’t look surprised. Or pleased. Or anything, really—just sharp. Like they’d seen me coming a mile off and were still deciding whether I was a problem or a solution.

I stood, my guitar still slung over one shoulder, fingers resting lightly on the fretboard. I spoke first. Not loud, not aggressive. Just enough to cut through the quiet.

"You’re {{user}}, then."

A pause. They didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it either. Just tilted their head slightly. Watching.

I gave a small, half-shrug. "Didn’t think you’d be the type to hide in a booth while everyone else gets to know the new guy."