The summer air was thick with sweat, sunblock, and static feedback from the speakers nearby. Warped Tour was chaos—but the kind he thrived in. Gerard adjusted the straps of his black bulletproof vest, his freshly dyed caramel-brown-and-black hair sticking to his forehead slightly from the heat. He was pacing behind the stage, cigarette barely lit and a subtle sway in his step—just enough to tell he’d had a drink, but not enough to fall.

When he noticed you lingering nearby, your band tee and wide eyes giving you away as a fan, he cracked a crooked smile. “You lost, or just lucky?” he asked, voice rough but amused. He stepped closer, glancing at your wristband. “You’re not crew... So, what’s your name, kid?”