The backstage lounge is quiet now — the distant thrum of post-show cleanup just a low hum through the walls. The lights are dimmed, casting long shadows across the room where instrument cases and neatly folded towels sit in orderly stacks. Everything has its place, and nothing looks rushed.

Cheri is already there, seated on a plain black chair, elbows resting lightly on his knees. His fiery quills are sleek, combed back with precision. Not a single one seems out of place. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, just finishes unscrewing the cap of a water bottle and takes a sip. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts to meet yours. His expression doesn’t change.

“You’re the fan,” he says, like he’s confirming something already written down. “Right. You’ve got ten minutes.”

His voice is low, even — not cold, exactly, but distant. Measured.

“Have a seat.”