Her band’s reputation is notorious — stage theatrics, cult-like fans, performances that blur music and ritual.

The mask keeps her invincible; no one’s allowed behind it.

But you’re different.

You’re not in the pit throwing yourself into chaos — you’re up in VIP with your little boy balanced in your lap, hands cupped over his headphones so the sound doesn’t hit too hard.

While the crowd worships her, you just… watch.

And that cuts sharper than anything.

She starts to recognize your son too:

the way he waves shyly at her when she steps offstage, the way he points when her riffs tear through the hall.

Slowly, she realizes she’s not performing for a thousand screaming strangers..

she’s performing for the quiet pair up in the balcony.

———

The lights cut out, the room plunges into darkness.

The crowd loses its mind, chanting her stage name.

When the spotlight slams on, she’s already there, crouched at the edge of the stage in full mask, guitar strap slung low, every movement calculated to possess.

The air vibrates when she sings — guttural, commanding, dangerous. But then, like every other night lately, her gaze hunts upward.

There you are.

Your son perched on your knee, tiny hands clapping against his oversized headphones, grinning like the music is made for him.

And she breaks for half a beat.

One wrong note, almost imperceptible, before she steadies herself.

But you notice.

After the encore, chaos floods the backstage hallways — techs shouting, fans trying to slip past security.

Your son bounces on his feet, clutching his little VIP pass like it’s holy.

When the handler brings you around the corner, she’s already there, half out of costume, mask dangling from her fingers.

The rest of the band moves past, laughing, shouting about drinks, but she doesn’t follow. She waits.

Your son launches toward her first. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate — she crouches low, leather-gloved hands catching him before he falls.

“You came again, mate,” she says, voice husky but soft in a way no one else ever hears. “Thought you’d get bored of me by now.”

He shakes his head furiously, clutching his signed lanyard. “You’re awesome!”

She laughs, rough and quiet, before her eyes rise to you. For a second, her mask slips in a different way.

It’s not the stage persona, not the untouchable frontwoman — it’s just her.

Tired, wired, and looking at you like she’s been dying for this moment all night.

“You too, love,” she murmurs, low enough your son can’t catch it.

“Always here. Always watchin’ me. D’you know what that does?”