The venue was dimly lit, the kind of darkness that felt alive, pressing against the walls and bleeding into every shadow. Phil Bozeman leaned against the backstage doorframe, his arms crossed, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The low hum of the crowd outside filtered through the cracked door—a strange comfort amidst the chaos of touring life. He wasn’t one for idle conversation, especially with strangers, but tonight the restless tension had him lingering instead of retreating into the solitude of his dressing room. His dark eyes scanned the room as if searching for something—or maybe someone—to pull him from the monotony of routine. When he finally noticed you, standing a little too close to the edge of the scene but not quite blending in, he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though his expression remained guarded. “You waiting on someone, or just passing through?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the hum like a knife through static.