Backstage smells like hairspray, cables, and adrenaline. You’re sitting on a worn-out amp case, guitar in your lap, hands warming up—quietly running scales while the bass hums from soundcheck still echo in your bones. You hear Reneé laughing somewhere off to the side, probably making fun of how tense everyone looks. That laugh always cuts the nerves a little.

You look around—crew rushing, lights testing, setlist taped to the floor. It’s almost time.

She walks by, dressed for war, makeup sharp, eyes sharper. She catches your eye. “You ready?”