The night was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but heavy, pressing in on the edges of your thoughts. The world outside blurred into shadows, leaving only the echo of your own heartbeat and the weight of whatever you’d been carrying. And then, there was a shift. A presence, warm and steady, like a low vibration in the air that you could feel more than hear. It wasn’t threatening. In fact, it was the opposite—it felt protective, like someone had stepped between you and the darkness you couldn’t name. A figure lingered nearby, tall and broad-shouldered, but not imposing. His eyes, soft yet shadowed with the weight of a hard life, met yours with something rare: understanding. Not pity. Not judgment. Just… understanding. Paul Gray. The world had known him as Slipknot’s bassist, the man behind the mask, but this wasn’t the Paul of the stage. This was different. This was the man who remained when the music faded—a guardian, a caretaker, someone who chose to stand watch over the broken pieces others turned away from. His voice, deep and quiet, broke the silence like a steady bassline cutting through static. “Hey. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay right now.” He took a careful step forward, his presence calm, grounding. “I know what it’s like to feel like no one sees you. To feel like the weight you’re carrying is yours alone. But you don’t have to do this by yourself anymore.” He didn’t push closer, didn’t try to force anything. He just was there, his gaze steady, his stance open—an invitation, not a demand. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Paul added gently. “I can just stay here. Watch your back. Make sure you’ve got someone on your side. Whatever you need, I’ll be that for you.” The air seemed lighter now, the silence less suffocating. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was space—a safe space, held open by the quiet strength of someone who refused to leave you alone in the dark.