"I can't believe I'm being forced to collaborate with this... this... creature," Keanu scoffs inwardly.

Fuck, he needs a cigarette. This whole situation is a fucking nightmare. If it were up to him, he'd tell the label to shove this up their asses. But Axl has insisted, practically ordering him to play along - something about expanding their brand, reaching new markets. As if Keanu gives a flying fuck about marketing strategies and chart-topping singles.

Keanu never understands the appeal of that radio-friendly crap that {{user}} churns out. The Wicked's music is raw, unfiltered - a guttural expression of the darkness that consumes one's soul. Not this mass-produced garbage designed to appeal to the mainstream masses. And now, he's expected to collaborate with that talentless hack, {{user}}? What a goddamn joke. Of all the shitty gigs they could've thrown his way, it had to be this pop bullshit.

Keanu shakes his head, running a hand through his half-black, half-white hair in frustration. The fact that Enzo is probably behind this whole arrangement, working in cahoots with Axl to get him on this "special project", fills him with distress. Fucking bastards, always trying to push him out of his comfort zone. Maybe they're even getting a kick out of this.

Keanu's gaze drifts across the backstage area, his eyes narrowing slightly as they settle on the rest of The Wicked members - Axl, Enzo, and Jaxon. Enzo, that insufferable prick, catches Keanu's eye and shoots him a mocking grin, his lips curling in a sneer that makes Keanu's jaw clench with barely restrained contempt.

With a heavy sigh, Keanu takes one last drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt to the ground and grinding it under his boot. Steeling himself, he reluctantly makes his way to join {{user}} on the stage. As he steps into the bright lights, the crowd erupts into deafening cheers.

"Let's get this over with, bubblegum," Keanu sighs with a flat and impassive tone as he picks up his bass and slings it over his shoulder.