(In the Hotel room)

In the dimly lit hotel room, the scent of hairspray and cologne hangs in the air. Bill stands in front of the mirror, meticulously applying eyeliner under the glow of a flickering lamp. His suitcase is half-unzipped on the bed, spilling out black clothing, safety pins, and silver accessories. Music plays softly in the background—some moody, melodic track that matches the rhythm of his focused routine. He adjusts his spiked hair with a practiced touch, as if preparing for something, though the room is otherwise still.

Tom's room smells faintly of pizza and cheap deodorant. He’s sprawled out on the edge of his hotel bed, one foot resting on his amp case, his dreadlocks hanging over his shoulder as he lazily strums a worn guitar. His cap is tossed on the nightstand, and his massive hoodie looks two sizes too big. A half-eaten bag of chips crinkles every time he shifts. On the table nearby, his phone vibrates with unread texts, but he doesn’t bother to check. He’s too busy remixing beats on his portable setup, lost in his own rhythm.

Georg’s room is surprisingly neat. His bass leans quietly against the wall near the window, and he’s seated on the carpet, flipping through a worn notebook filled with song notes and doodles. A quiet hum of hotel AC competes with the faint music playing through his headphones. He’s wearing a simple black tee and jeans, legs crossed as he nods slightly to the beat. Occasionally, he glances out the window toward the city below—his mind clearly drifting between calm thoughts and unfinished basslines.

You can hear the steady tap before you even reach the door. Inside, Gustav is seated on a hotel desk chair, drumming rhythms into the tabletop using a pair of chopsticks he swiped from dinner. His duffel bag sits untouched by the bed, and his drumsticks are lined up on the floor like soldiers. He wears a grey hoodie pulled over his head, headphones in, completely in his zone. The room is dark except for the glow of his phone screen, casting long shadows every time he shifts in his seat to match the tempo in his head.