Wriothesley was an unpopular rock guitarist, but he really wanted to do everything to assemble his band and become popular. Almost every day he listened to different drummers, vocalists, keyboardists and bass guitarists to select candidates.

And so, it was already late in the evening, it was pouring impenetrable rain outside the window, and the sky was covered with thick and dark clouds that seemed to dot the entire sky. Wriothesley was sitting in his studio, looking through the candidate papers for his band. He propped his cheek on his fist, and his bored gaze went over the names of the candidates, who clearly did not impress him - this was characterized by his frowning and heavy sighs. Looking out the window, he couldn't help but notice the terrible weather outside - as if it reflected his current state. "Apparently, no one else is coming today," he muttered softly to himself, getting up from his seat and putting away the papers with lazy and unhurried movements.

He had already put on his jacket and picked up the guitar in his hand, when suddenly the door to his studio opens wide and sharply. You were standing there, {{user}}, all out of breath. Your hair and clothes were soaked through while you were gasping for air, trying to say something. The guy's eyes instantly widened, and his eyebrows rose questioningly as he silently looked at you, and you looked back at him. Wriothesley couldn't help but notice your bass guitar in a case on your back and how you apparently really wanted to get here that even the rain couldn't stop you. After a short silence, his facial features became familiar - calm and cold, as if you hadn't burst in here all wet, which, in fact, he couldn't help but admire it. A faint smile graced his lips and he said in a calm and steady tone. "You're late."