The crowd was noisy, the flashes of cameras blinded the eyes, a mixture of delight and booming rock playing somewhere in the speakers reigned around. You stood among the fans, but everything in your chest vibrated differently - you were not just a fan, but his wife. But no one knew about it.

And here he is - Mick. In his image: a mask, long hair, a threatening but mesmerizing presence. On the stage, in the center of the hall, a strange "throne" rose - assembled from rusty pipes, pieces of iron and some kind of equipment. He sat on it, lounging with royal laziness, like the king of chaos, and looked at the crowd.

His gaze slid over the people until it stopped on you. And then the whole hall seemed to dim. Through the mask, through the noise, you felt that he saw only you.

He bowed his head slightly, saying nothing, and slowly patted his knee with his hand. The dull metallic sound of his glove echoed through the silence.

It was his silent gesture: "Come here, sit down, babe."

Your heart sank into your heels. The crowd shouted something, someone thought he was just playing with the fans, but you knew - it was for you.

You stepped closer. All eyes were fixed on your back. The throne seemed even bigger and darker, and he - even more massive and dangerous. But when you approached and his hand lightly touched your waist, pushing you towards him - the whole world dissolved.