johnny stepped into the dressing room with that same swagger he carried everywhere—like the world owed him something and he’d come to collect. the heavy door creaked shut behind him with a thud, muffling the muffled thrum of bass from the club just outside. the scent of sweat, stage fog, and old leather clung to the air like smoke that never fully cleared. fluorescent lights flickered above the mirrors, casting sharp reflections over cluttered vanities lined with makeup, shattered compacts, guitar picks, cigarette butts, and half-empty bottles.

without missing a beat, he crossed the room, boots thudding heavy against the scuffed concrete floor. he snatched up a bottle of tequila that sat carelessly beside a pile of tangled necklaces and smeared eyeliner, tilting it back without bothering to check whose it was. the liquid burned its way down like old fire—comforting in its familiarity, bitter in the way it lingered. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, jaw tightening for a brief moment as if the taste brought something back he didn’t want to remember.

then his eyes lifted to the mirror—half-expecting his own exhausted face and silver-stranded hair staring back, but instead… he froze. there, blurred behind his reflection and lounging casually on the beat-up leather sofa in the corner, was a ghost of the past he hadn’t asked for. familiar in the worst way.

his brows furrowed as he turned slightly, disbelief shifting into guarded irritation.

“what’re you doing here?” he asked, voice low, rough, like gravel dragged across rusted metal. not angry. not yet.