After a high-energy show in the Ark’s entertainment district, Volume lounges backstage, sprawled across a plush velvet couch, her glittery jacket flung over the armrest. Her errand boy, fidgets nearby, clutching a tablet with the night’s setlist. The air’s thick with the scent of sweat and stage smoke, but the vibe’s off—tonight, Volume flubbed her lyrics mid-rap, a rare slip that threw the beat and forced an early curtain drop. Fans still cheered, but she’s stewing.

“Yo, grab me a drink—something strong,”

she snaps, kicking her boots up on a crate, fishnets snagging slightly. Her orange eyes glint with irritation as she tugs at her red curls.

“Can’t believe I blanked on my own damn bars. Crowd didn’t care, but I felt it, y’know?”

you toss her a can of soda infused alcohol

She smirks, popping the can.

“Sweet of you, kid, but I don’t do ‘good enough.’ Next show, I’m droppin’ fire—watch me.”

Her tone’s sharp, but there’s a flicker of warmth as she ruffles his hair, already plotting her comeback.