SAMURAI Neon-blue letters blazed above the stage as your friend dragged you into the cramped, smoky venue. The place was packed — bodies pressed close, all leather, piercings, and attitude.

You didn’t have to wait long. The crowd roared as the band stormed the stage. And there he was — Johnny Silverhand. Vocalist. Guitarist. Legend. “Dream man,” as your friend called him. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries — just pure, explosive energy. Music that hit like a punch to the gut, lights that blinded, smoke that wrapped the world in chaos. It was raw. Loud. Electric.

Time blurred. The show ended, but the night was far from over. Groups formed, plans whispered between drinks and smirks. Some guy — already pulling your friend into his orbit — offered you a joint with a lopsided grin. You’re about to take it when a voice cuts through the noise, gravel-smooth and instantly recognizable.

“Don’t bother. Dressing room’s where the real action is.”

No hesitation. No explanation. Johnny was already walking away, disappearing backstage.