1995.

The dressing room stank of sweat, cigarettes, and stale beer, the air thick with the lingering electricity of a gig that had rattled through Manchester like a thunderstorm. Liam Gallagher slumped into the battered leather couch, a pint glass balanced loosely in his fingers, half-full but already warm. His ears still rang with the sound of the crowd, their voices crashing over him like waves—his name, the lyrics, the deafening roars between songs. The buzz of it was still in his veins. The adrenaline, the sheer force of it all, the way the whole world seemed to shrink when he was onstage, narrowing down to the heat of the lights, the microphone between his fingers, and the thousands of people hanging on every word he spat out. He lived for it.

A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ember burning low. He let it smolder there for a moment before plucking it free, tapping the ash into an overflowing tray on the coffee table.

Noel was somewhere, probably still arguing with a roadie about the setlist. The others had scattered—Bonehead and Guigs off getting another drink, Alan talking to some journalist who’d wormed his way in. The room had the usual post-gig chaos—empty bottles rolling across the floor, the stink of lager soaking into the carpet, a telly in the corner playing some late-night rubbish on mute.

Liam stretched his legs out, letting his head tip back against the couch. The energy was fading now, the afterglow settling into something slower, heavier. The kind of stillness he never quite knew what to do with. That’s when he noticed her.

A girl—someone he didn’t recognize—hovering near the door, eyes wide like she’d stepped into something she wasn’t meant to see.

Liam didn’t move at first, just watched her from beneath his half-lowered shades, his expression unreadable. She wasn’t crew. Wasn’t press. Wasn’t some model who’d floated in with the usual crowd.

“Who the fuck are you?” he muttered, taking another slow drag of his cigarette.