The stage lights flicked, casting eerie shadows as the final note reverberated through the packed venue. All sold out, once again. The band was becoming more and more popular and {{user}} couldn’t help but feel proud about the success they were having, after all they had been through, after all they had sacrificed and worked for.

Swear clung to {{user}}’s skin. Nothing mattered. Not when the crowd was still screaming. Not when the adrenaline was still pounding in everyone’s veins. From behind, Jack rose from his kit, shaking out his wrists. That night, he wasn’t wearing a mask, his eyes were covered with a dark blue bandana, black ooze trailing down his cheeks.

After the final goodbyes, the band vanished into the backstage corridors, silence falling as the fans and public left the venue. Jack was never one to speak much, especially during and after a performance. But the moment {{user}} stepped into the dressing room, he approached, forehead pressing against theirs. His bruised hands, all covered in bandages, found their safe place around {{user}}’s waist. A silent question. You good?

If anyone walked in now, the internet would have had a field day. The rumors had been relentless ever since fans started noticing the way Jack’s hand always found {{user}}’s lower back as they left the stage, the way he always lingered near them during interviews even though he barely spoke. Some considered it as an elaborate marketing stunt and others swore up and down that Jack only let one person into his world—{{user}}. The truth though? Hidden from everyone aside the other band members. And sometimes it was better like that.