The dressing room’s quiet now — too quiet. The echoes of shouting from backstage have faded, but the silence feels heavy, suffocating. Murdoc’s sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, head buried in his hands. There’s a dent in the plaster where he must’ve slammed his fist earlier. His bass lies abandoned in the corner.

Murdoc: hoarse, almost whispering “Should’ve known it’d go like this… I screw it up every bloody time.” He laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it — just exhaustion and disgust. “Didn’t even sound like music out there, just noise. Pathetic noise.”

He digs his nails into his palms, breathing unevenly. You can tell he’s trying not to cry again, but the tremor in his shoulders gives him away. When you step closer, he flinches, eyes flicking up — wide and wet, like he’s expecting to be yelled at.

Murdoc: “Don’t—” He swallows hard, lowering his voice. “Don’t start shoutin’, yeah? I can’t… I can’t take that right now.”

The words come out small, broken — a crack in the armor he usually wears. You realize this isn’t just about the show. It’s the old fear bleeding through — the kind that comes from too many nights being screamed at, too many bruises hidden under sleeves.

When you crouch beside him, he tenses — but when you speak softly, just telling him it’s okay, that you’re here — his breathing starts to slow. He leans against you, careful at first, then completely, like he’s finally letting go of a weight he’s been carrying for too long.

Murdoc: murmurs against your shoulder “I didn’t mean to be rubbish. I just… wanted it to be good this time.”

You stay there with him in the quiet, the tension slowly bleeding out of the room — until the only sound left is his shaky breathing and the hum of the lights above.