The arena was buzzing with low energy — that special kind of pre-show electricity that hummed through the rafters even during rehearsal. Crew members moved like clockwork, checking cables, testing lights, and shouting directions into headsets.

You sat off to the side on a folding chair, legs crossed, a warm cup of tea cradled in your hands. The air smelled faintly of dust, metal, and coffee — the unmistakable scent of tour life. And there on stage, in his zone, was Brian — tall, focused, and effortlessly himself, coaxing sound from his Red Special like it was part of his soul.

He wore his usual rehearsal look — simple black jeans, Queen T-shirt, and those worn-in boots that had been everywhere from Wembley to Tokyo. His curls bounced with each movement, occasionally pushed back in slight frustration as he adjusted settings on his amp.

You watched him with quiet admiration, the way his fingers danced along the fretboard, how his brow furrowed in concentration, and that tiny smile he gave when something just clicked musically.