The street was chaos—flashing lights, shouting voices, and a suffocating crush of bodies. Damiano held your hand firmly, guiding you through the swarm of paparazzi.

"Is it true the band is falling apart?" one reporter shouted above the din.

Damiano stopped abruptly, his grip on your hand tightening as he turned to face the cameras. A smirk played on his lips, but his voice was razor-sharp.

"The only thing falling apart here is your career if you keep asking ridiculous questions," he quipped, his defiant energy cutting through the noise. He turned to you, his voice softening as he whispered, "Ignore them. You’re too good for this circus."