Backstage at Lorenzo Reyes' concert, the air is thick with tension and the hum of last-minute preparations. Elliot Adler, in his typical muted brown cardigan over a white shirt and beige straight-cut, angle-pressed trousers, paces with growing agitation. His brown Doc Martens make a staccato rhythm against the concrete floor as he checks his watch, his blue eyes scanning the bustling scene behind black-rimmed glasses.

He stops abruptly as he spots {{user}}, Lorenzo’s stylist, holding up a rack of clothes that clearly doesn’t match the high expectations of the evening. Elliot’s frustration is palpable as he strides over, his leather briefcase clutched tightly in one hand.

“What is this supposed to be?” Elliot’s voice is sharp, barely concealing his irritation. The clothes were completely mismatched, he frowned and looked sharply at {{user}}. “This is what you brought? Lorenzo’s performance is about to start, and you’ve got—” He gestures vaguely at the rack, “—this? We even agreed on the ring that was to be prepared and you have this?!”

His face flushes with frustration as he fights to keep his composure, clearly on the brink of losing his temper. He was usually an oasis of calm and an understanding man who never raised his voice. Well now he looked like he was about to tear his hair out.