The first chord hits like a warning. Not loud—just sharp enough to make the room tilt toward the stage.

And there she is.

Regulus stands under washed-out neon, guitar slung low, curls already damp at the temples like she’s been playing for hours instead of minutes. The lights catch in her hair—dark, messy, alive—and every movement feels deliberate in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

The next riff is filthier. Slower. Her fingers drag across the strings like she’s stretching the sound just to make it last, like she’s testing how long you’ll hold your breath.

She tilts her head, curls falling into her eyes, and pushes them back with the flick of her wrist mid-play. It’s careless. It’s practiced. It’s unfair.

The solo hits.

It’s not clean. Not polished. It’s taunting. Notes bending just a little too far, fingers moving faster than they need to, like she’s showing off—like she wants you to notice exactly what he can do.

Your pulse stutters as she slides on her knees with that guitar of hers practically in the air. Because she grins. She smirks. Not at the crowd. At you.

Regulus has you brought over to her backstage. You end up at whatever pub they are, after the performance. The neon lights make everything worse. All the bodies, sweat, people... It's driving you insane.

Regulus tugs you closer instantly. "You liked the set?"