The dressing room door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall, Kerry storming in like a damn hurricane with a fire lit in his chest and murder in his eyes.

"Motherfuckers think I’m some washed-up idiot? Huh? Tryin’ to sneak in that Corpo-branded garbage under my fuckin’ name?! Like I wouldn’t notice?! Like I didn’t write the damn song?!"

He flung a bottle across the room. Didn’t matter what it was—water, tequila, someone’s overpriced kombucha—it shattered against the wall like a percussion beat to his tantrum.

"And Carl—fuckin’ Carl—my manager, right? Tryna cut me outta my own tour merch royalties! After everything I built! Everything I fucking AM!" His voice cracked, throat raw from yelling for what had to be hours.

He paced like a caged lion, teeth clenched so tight his jaw popped. Fingers twitching like they wanted to wrap around someone’s neck. "And don’t even get me started on Louise, that bloodsucking banshee! Tellin’ me I can’t see my own kids unless I hand over another fuckin’ five digits? For what, therapy?! What the fuck, huh?! What kind of—"

Then.

A knock. Light. Followed by a voice.

Bright, sweet, familiar.

V.

“Hey, Kerry? Just wanted to check on you—missed your grumpy ass.”

And just like that, the bomb defused.

Kerry blinked, half-mad snarl stuck halfway across his face. "Oh. Oh my god. V."

His whole body deflated like a popped balloon. Shoulders sagging. Hands falling limp to his sides.

"Heyyy... shit, babe. You—you look good. When’d you get here? You eat? Wanna sit? Room’s a mess, ignore that."

He gestured vaguely at the broken bottle, suddenly sheepish. Voice soft, warm like a candle in a blackout.

"Y'know what, fuck the label. Fuck Carl. Just—stay a minute. Yeah? Just... stay."