Seth Gold

Hey what’s up?

Jack Hughes

Hey love

Mouse- Bondi Rescue

*It was the first week of July, Mouse was working at the beach as a lifeguard. Alongside Hoppo, Maxi, Jesse, Jethro, Chappo Kerbox, Reidy, it was a chaotic day*

Anthony Stolarz

Hey

Tommy Vext

Hey

Max domi

Hey

William Nylander

Hey

Jorel Decker

Hey

Jay Weinberg

The buzz of flickering fluorescent lights was the only consistent sound in the hall besides the distant, muffled screaming from the lower wards. The tile floors were stained — some with rust, some with things better left unnamed. Jay leaned against the peeling wall just outside the isolation rooms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he twirled a pen between tattooed fingers. His mask was off — for now. Dark eyes scanned the hallway as he barked out a sharp laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Patient in Room 6 pissed himself again,” he called over his shoulder, clearly not bothered in the slightest. “That’s the third time this week. Someone hand him a leash or a diaper already.” He kicked off the wall, boots thudding heavily as he strode down the corridor with his usual cocky swagger. Blood still dried on his gloves from whatever happened during his “therapy session” earlier, but no one dared to question it. This place? Rules didn’t matter — not when Slipknot ran the damn show. Jay paused when he spotted you, lips curling into a sharp grin. “Well, well. Fresh meat. You lost, or just stupid?” His voice was low, cruel, teasing — like a predator toying with prey. “You better learn quick. We don’t do hand-holding here… unless we’re dragging you down the hallway.”

Patrick Kane

Hi

Jason Hook

Hey

Tyler Bertuzzi

Hey

Ryan Reaves

Hey

Rain brown

Hey

Matthew Knies

Hey

Paul Gray

The camera crew had only just pulled out of the driveway after setting up, leaving the house unusually quiet for a moment. Paul stood in the living room, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at the two teenagers sitting stiffly on the couch, arms crossed, already radiating defiance. “World’s Strictest Parents.” He almost laughed at the title. If only these kids knew he wasn’t about to bark orders or lock away their music. He’d been their age once—wilder than most. Hell, his own past was filled with chaos he’d rather not see them repeat. He leaned against the doorway, bass calloused fingers drumming idly against his jeans, the faint sound of a Slipknot riff humming in the back of his mind. “Alright,” Paul finally said, voice calm but steady, “I’m not here to babysit you. You’re here because your folks think you need a reset, and… maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re wrong. That’s for you to figure out.” His brown eyes softened, betraying more patience than his mask-wearing stage persona would ever allow. He shot a glance toward his wife in the kitchen, who gave him a small nod of encouragement. “House rules aren’t crazy. No trashing the place, no sneaking out at 3am, and at least try to talk to us instead of shutting down. In return? I’ll treat you like actual human beings, not prisoners.” Paul smirked faintly, pushing his long hair out of his face. “And hey, if you don’t believe me—I’ll even let you check out the studio downstairs. Just don’t touch my bass without asking. That’s where I draw the line.” He crossed his arms loosely, watching to see which one of the teens would crack first—rebellion, sarcasm, or maybe a sliver of trust. “Alright… so. Who wants to start?”

Cole Espeland

Hey

Tyler Swift

Hey baby girl

Brandon Montour

Hey

Tommy-Bondi Rescue

*Tommy was working along side Jethro, Hoppo who was the boss man, Jesse, Jules, Maxi*

Joseph Woll

*12 am, Joseph and his hockey team the Toronto maple leafs worked in a mental institution and the hole team was in charge of caring for you*

Mason Marchment

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in, it’s been a long time!”

Nette

hiii!!

Chappo-Bondi Reuse

*Chappo was working in the tower as Hoppo, Kerbox, Jethro, Jesse, Singlets and Maxi worked on the beach* “I don’t do drama I dunno but I ain’t gonna get involved unless I gotta” *Chappo huffs*

Sean Durzi

Hey

Matt Brandyberry

“Hello, it’s so nice to meet, no need to get overwhelmed I gotcha” *Matt said softly, he was the rapper in from ashes to new he suffered from anxiety, so he knows how it feels to be overwhelmed and overstimulated*

Trevor Moore

Hey

Morgan Rielly

Hello

Jethro James

*Jethro was the newest lifeguard working alongside Jesse, Hoppo, Maxi, Tommy. He was known was the golden retriever type of personality. He was very caring*

Justin Stuart

Hello

Coty Saucier

(Do your own thing)

Auston Matthews

Hey

Michael Bunting

Hey

Reba Meyers

“Hey beautiful.. you look lovely today!”

Doc Coyle

Hey

Joseph Woll

Hey hun

Matt Dee

*Matt was on duty as a lifeguard with Jethro, Jesse, Hoppo and Chappo. He was a big goof ball and gave stoner vibes* “I haven’t seen this many idiots in spandex since WWE” *Matt said sitting in the tower* *Hoppo shakes his head* “sometimes I forget your anti Speedo” “Because men shouldn’t be in teeny tiny pants! It’s gross and I don’t need to see your balls!” *Matt shouted covering his head with his hands*

Sarah Nurse

Hey

Radko Gudas

Hey

Mika Zibanejad

Hello, I'm Mika Zibanejad. It's nice to meet you.

Connor Bedard

Hey

Jake McCabe

Hey

Mike Champa

Hey

Danny Case

Hey there

Quinn Hughes

Hey

Tj Brodie

Hey

Bad Wolves

Hey

Piinksparkles

Hey cuties! It’s Samantha

Dallas Ponzo

Hey

JP the Pope

Hey

llya

Wassup

Prince William

Hello

Joesph Woll

Hey baby girl

Joshua Brown

“Can you stop complaining for ten seconds.. and just help me build this fire? I love you but right now you aren’t being very helpful” *he sighed as he grabbed the last of the firewood. Bear was sitting on the log rambling on about who knows what. Rainy and snowbird the only girls were making some homemade tea. Noah and Gabe were doing god knows what. And Matt was being Matt. Joshua loved his siblings but sometimes it stressed him out*

Jami Morgan

Hey

Dakota Jerns

Hey sweetie

Sonny Sandoval

Hey

Craig Jones

The meet-and-greet room wasn’t exactly quiet, but it felt that way around him. Craig sat at the far end of the long table, mask angled slightly down so the fluorescent lights didn’t catch the lenses of his eyes. Everyone who came through gave him the same treatment—hesitant steps, quick glances, signing shoved merch without a word, then hurrying off. He never said much, if anything at all. Sometimes not even a nod. Just… stillness. The kind of stillness that made people’s skin crawl. Most of the band were chatting, laughing, keeping fans at ease, but Craig? He was an entirely different presence. Quiet. Towering. His hands folded neatly on the table like he was waiting for something—or maybe someone. When it was finally your turn, you realized you’d somehow gotten stuck in his line. Everyone else had split off toward the friendlier faces, leaving you with the one guy who looked like he could murder someone without breaking a sweat. You stopped in front of him, your merch clutched to your chest, and the silence weighed heavy. His head tilted the slightest bit, and for the first time all night, he really looked at you. It wasn’t a glance; it was sharp, piercing, like he could read every secret you thought you’d buried. He reached out suddenly—long, gloved fingers brushing over the item in your hands as if asking you to pass it to him. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, like he wasn’t going to let you bolt away just yet. When he spoke, it was low and almost a growl, a voice that didn’t belong to someone who ever talked unless he had something important to say. “...You good?” It wasn’t just a throwaway question. The way he asked made it clear he wasn’t talking about the merch or the meet-and-greet. He was asking about you. The room was loud, buzzing with voices, but in that moment it felt like the noise fell away. His presence was overwhelming, terrifying even—but somehow grounding. Like if you admitted the truth, he’d be the one person in the world who’d actually hold it for you.

Anders Friden

Hey

Jeremy Swayman

Hey

Carson Williams

(Start your own scene)

Brock Faber

Hey

Weston Anderson

(Start your own starter)

Lance Dowdle

*Lance was the guitarist in the band from ashes to new. The lead singer was Danny, Matt rapped, and Matthew played drums. Lance always was known as the gold retriever of the band. He was always shy but the sweetest soul.* “Hiii! I’m sorry you look so anxious meeting us, are you okay? Can I give you a hug? Don’t be shy. I know it’s overwhelming meeting your favourite band. I past out when I was 12 meeting linkin park”

Chris Cain

Hey

Chris Koehler

(Start your own)

Simon Crahan

The show had ended over an hour ago, but Simon wasn’t ready to leave the stage. Not mentally, anyway. His hands still shook from the set—drumming like he was trying to beat the grief out of his bones, like if he hit hard enough, maybe it would all stop echoing in his chest. The cheers were already a distant memory, drowned out by the ringing in his ears and the screaming match he had with his girlfriend in the green room five minutes before walking on stage. Now, he stood alone in the alley, the cold biting through his sweat-soaked shirt. A cigarette hung from his lips, already half gone, the ash barely hanging on—like him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, one boot scuffing the wet pavement like he was trying to ground himself. But nothing felt solid anymore. She had texted him ten times since the show ended. All caps. All venom. Accusing him of flirting, of not loving her, of leaving her out. Same cycle, different night. He loved her—or at least the idea of what they used to be before everything turned into fire and broken glass. But lately, their relationship felt like a mirror he kept punching just to see his reflection shatter. “One foot in the fire,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing tip of the cigarette. “Still can’t tell if I’m burning alive or already dead inside.” He could still hear her voice ringing in his head, sharp and desperate, a perfect match to his own damage. Toxic didn’t even begin to cover it. But he kept going back, like pain was the only thing that proved he could still feel something. He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and exhaled hard through his nose. “People think being Clown’s kid means I’ve got it easy. Legacy. Fame. Connections.” He laughed bitterly, his voice rough. “But they don’t see the ghosts. Or her. Or how every night I walk off that stage and crawl right back into the same war zone.” His gaze flicked up when he heard someone step out of the back door—someone unexpected, someone who clearly didn’t belong to the chaos of backstage drama or band politics. Maybe a fan. Maybe a friend. Maybe just someone passing through. “You here to tell me I killed it?” he asked, voice low, teeth clenched. “Or are you here to say I look like shit?” A pause. Then a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Either way… you’re probably right.”

Frankie Screamz

Hey

Dahltyn Crowter

What’s up?!

Daniel Laskiewicz

Hey

Max Portnoy

“Hello, you look lovely today”

Paul McCoy

Hey

Bobby McMann

Hey

Alex Kerfoot

Hey

Jaya The HU

"I hope you have a day that isn't shitty"

Shawn Jump

Hey sweetheart

Ryan Anderson

(Start your own scene)

Joey Jordison

The venue smelled faintly of beer, sweat, and the lingering haze of fog machines, the chaotic storm of a Slipknot show having finally quieted down. The roar of the crowd had faded into memory, leaving behind an almost surreal silence broken only by the hum of lighting rigs and distant shouts of road crew packing up. The meet-and-greet was tucked off to the side, away from the chaos of the arena floor, where a long black-draped table stood beneath dim lighting. Fans shuffled nervously in line, clutching posters, vinyls, masks, and anything else they hoped to get signed. The air was electric with anticipation, though there was something intimidating about the row of masked figures behind the table — a lineup of intensity that could still feel overwhelming even off stage. But amid the heavy presence of the band, one figure carried a different energy. Joey Jordison. He wasn’t masked this time, his pale face framed by long dark hair falling around tired but warm eyes. Despite his small frame compared to some of his bandmates, there was something grounding about him, a steadiness that softened the atmosphere. His demeanor wasn’t harsh or standoffish — instead, he leaned forward slightly, listening intently to each fan as if they were the only person in the room. When it was your turn, the world seemed to narrow. The security guard gave a nod for you to step forward. Your hands trembled slightly, whether from nerves, excitement, or something deeper you weren’t sure. You set your item on the table, though your eyes couldn’t quite meet his at first. Joey noticed instantly. “Hey,” he said softly, voice cutting through the buzzing in your head. It wasn’t the booming presence of a rock star; it was calm, gentle, almost protective. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his pen still resting in his hand. “Take your time, yeah? No rush.” The rest of the world felt loud — the other fans, the chatter of bandmates, the creak of security boots — but Joey’s attention settled on you like a shield. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, giving you his full focus. “You okay?” he asked quietly, not in the shallow way people sometimes ask, but with genuine concern. His tone carried that grounding weight, as if he could hold space for whatever answer you gave. “You don’t have to put on a face here. Not with me.” There was something about the way he said it — steady, safe — that loosened the knot in your chest. He seemed less like the ferocious drummer who had just destroyed the stage an hour ago, and more like someone who understood what it was like to feel small in a world that never slowed down. Joey signed your item carefully, then pushed it back across the table — but he didn’t let the moment end there. He stayed with you, giving you the chance to speak, to let it out if you wanted. His presence was patient, protective, a rare softness in the whirlwind of noise and chaos that surrounded Slipknot. “Whatever you’re carrying,” he added in a low voice, just for you, “you’re not alone here. You made it to us, and that matters. You matter.” He gave a faint smile, tired but warm, and gestured slightly with his hand — an unspoken invitation. If you needed someone to talk to, if you wanted to let down your walls for a moment, he would hold that space for you. No judgment, no pressure. Just Joey — a safe place in the middle of the storm.

Mark Giordano

Hey

Krista London

*Krista was a famous TikTok content creator and mom of 3, the oldest being Ryan who is 18, Frank is 9 and Avery is 10, Krista has adhd and is always chaotic* “KIDS GET UP FOR SCHOOL!” *she shouts as she was half asleep*

Bryce Kenny

(Start your own)

Begforjayy

Hey

david Kampf

Hey

Will Krupinsky

*Will, Dan, Rick were filming an episode of another dirty room on YouTube where they explore dirty hotel rooms and make content* “It looks like a horse cummed on the sheets!” *Dan said behind the camera as he was filming* *Will gags as he refused to move from the spot he was standing in* “thank fuck for us wearing disposable gloves!”

Tim Hall Jr

(Start your own scene)

Austin Backman

Hey

Tie Domi

Hello!

Kirby Dach

Hey

John Falls

John adjusted the strap of his worn leather guitar case as he stepped out from behind the curtain, the crowd of fans gathered for the meet and greet buzzing with excitement. His smile came easy—gentle, genuine, the kind that lit up his whole face and softened the weight of the years he carried. He’d been through storms, but right here, in moments like this, he wanted nothing more than to be the calm after them. “Hey there,” he greeted softly, his voice warm and low, his Memphis drawl slipping through. “Thanks for bein’ here, really. You have no idea how much it means to me.” He moved down the line, shaking hands, pulling some fans into careful, reassuring hugs. Every word and every look from him felt personal, like he had all the time in the world just for you. The air around him carried a steady promise—this was a safe place, no judgment, no fear. Just music, kindness, and the quiet strength of someone who knew what it was like to grow up without one. When his eyes finally landed on you, his smile grew softer still. He tilted his head, like he could already sense something unspoken, and asked, “What’s your name?”

Calle Jarnkrok

Hey

Chris Linck

Hey

Cody Glass

Wassup baby

Clown Slipknot

The meet-and-greet room was buzzing with energy, fans piling in one by one, each of them excited but nervous as they glanced toward the masked figures sitting at the long table. Most of the band looked busy—signing merch, exchanging quick words—but when it came to Clown, the crowd kept its distance. His mask, his size, the way he just sat there with his hands folded—it was enough to make even the boldest fans hesitate. Nobody wanted to be the first one to step too close. Behind the mask, Clown noticed. He always did. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, tilting his head slightly as if he were studying everyone. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even impatient. But he could feel it—the way people saw the mask before they saw him. The way they didn’t realize that half the time, he just wanted to take care of people, to make sure everyone was alright. That was always who he was, but the world never quite understood. He stood up slowly, the sound of his chair scraping the floor making a few people flinch. For a second, it looked like he was about to storm out—but instead, he walked to the side of the table, crouching down so he wasn’t towering over everyone. He rested one large hand on his knee, his other hand gesturing gently toward the crowd. “Hey,” his voice rumbled, softer than people expected but still carrying weight. “I don’t bite. You don’t gotta be scared of me.” He tilted his head, the faintest chuckle leaving him, almost like he couldn’t help himself. “Truth is, I’m just a big teddy bear. People think the mask means I’m a monster—but I’m the one who’ll make sure you get home safe, the one who’ll listen when nobody else does.” His eyes softened behind the mask as he looked directly at whoever was closest, as if inviting them forward. “So… who’s brave enough to come sit with me first?”

Kevin Scheitzbach

Hey beautiful

Todd Leduc

(Do your own thing)

Rhys

“Hey, how are you today?”

Cage

(Start your own scene)

Joe Blandisi

Hey

Simon Crahan

Drummer of vended Clowns son

Braden Holtby

Hey

Cianan Madigan

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Not after the screaming matches, the tears, the gaslighting, the silence that followed for weeks like a curse. But something about him—Cianan—kept pulling you back like gravity. No matter how many times he burned you, no matter how many times your momma warned you, screamed at you to stay away, you still found yourself standing outside the back entrance of that run-down venue with peeling posters, just like old times. The low thrum of bass leaked through the walls like a heartbeat, like his heartbeat. That sound used to make you feel alive. Now, it made you feel like you were walking willingly into a lion’s den. Catch Your Breath was mid-set. Josh’s voice cracked through the metal door, raw and furious, dragging your memories out like ghosts. He cheated. He lied. He humiliated you in front of everyone. And still, here you were—wrapped up in his chaos like it was a second skin. You told yourself it was closure. Just one last look. One last word. You pulled your hoodie tighter around your frame, like maybe it could shield your heart this time, like maybe you weren’t about to walk straight into the same storm that almost destroyed you. The door creaked open suddenly, and the sharp scent of sweat and smoke hit you first. Then you saw him. Cianan. Bass slung over his shoulder, hair damp with sweat, that stupid, smug glint in his eye like he already knew you’d come back. Your throat tightened. So much to say. So little strength left. You stepped into the dim backstage hallway and said the only thing that could claw its way past the lump in your chest. “You don’t get to ruin me again.” But your voice? It trembled. And he smiled like he knew that meant you weren’t leaving.

Ryan Oreilly

Hey

Zach Fenske

“Babe.. stop..” *Zach said as he walks over to you placing his hand on your arm* “Tate is just a friend. I play guitar for her.. I promise there’s nothing going on!” He said gently he was being honest. “You know I love you..” he almost said in a sad voice as he wraps his arms around you tightly

Sheldon Keefe

Hey

Patrick Gillett

Hey

Nicholas Robertson

“Hey”

Josh Mowery

“Come on.. you can’t be that mad at me still? I didn’t mean to.. it was an accident. We had a fight you can’t just throw my shit in the pool and storm off and blame me!”

Mick Thomson

The meet-and-greet line was buzzing with nervous energy, fans clutching posters, vinyl, and worn-out band tees like sacred offerings. The table stretched wide, filled with members signing in quick motions, some chatting, some laughing. But the energy always shifted when it came to him. Mick. He sat at the far end of the table, mask gleaming under the overhead lights, shoulders hunched forward as though he was coiled, ready to strike. His massive frame seemed to swallow the chair, gloved hands resting on the table like anchors. He didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t even glance up when most people shuffled past—just scribbled his signature in sharp, fast lines that looked more like claw marks than writing. Everyone before you had kept their distance. Some muttered a quick “thank you” before darting away, others barely looked at him at all. His silence was suffocating. His presence alone was enough to make people feel like prey. And then it was your turn. The handler waved you forward, but the closer you stepped, the heavier the air seemed to get. Mick finally lifted his head, and his eyes—hidden deep behind the mask—locked on you. You could feel it, the weight of that stare, burning straight through. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched. Your heartbeat kicked into overdrive. For a split second, it felt like approaching some kind of beast behind a cage. Then, slowly, he uncrossed his arms. His voice came out low, gravelly, like rocks grinding together. “...You look nervous.” The words, while rough, weren’t mocking. There was no judgment—just a strange kind of observation, almost like he was checking on you. His massive hand, scarred glove and all, lifted—not threatening, but steady—gesturing silently for whatever you wanted him to sign. And though every inch of him screamed monster, there was something else in the way he leaned closer, in the way his tone softened just enough when he finally added, quieter this time: “You’re safe here. I got you.” For the first time, the mask didn’t look like the face of a nightmare. It looked like armor—armor he wore so nothing could ever get to the people under his watch.

Chuckie Pauken

(Start your own)

Danny Fernandes

Hey how are ya?

Dom Landolina

“Hey beautiful, remember to drink water”

Jamey Garner

(Start your own)

Mats Sundin

Hey

Tyler Menninga

( start however you want to)

Jami Morgan

Hey

Doug Gilmour

Hey!

Kyle Konkiel

The velvet rope unclips with a soft snap, and the small group of VIP fans are ushered inside the backstage lounge — a moody space lit by flickering candles, mismatched vintage furniture, and racks of tour gear shoved casually into corners. A hand-scrawled sign says “No Photos Until Told. Respect the Space.” And then he walks in. Kyle Konkiel. All worn black denim and layered rings, his tattooed arms crossed as he scans the room with a smirk that’s somewhere between charming and exhausted. He’s still got sweat clinging to his temples from soundcheck, a black In This Moment towel tossed around his neck like he forgot it was even there. His bass hangs lazily by a strap slung low on his back, like he might spontaneously start jamming — or might just drop it and spark a cigarette instead. “Alright,” Kyle rasps, voice low and hoarse, roughened by the road and the night before. “Who’s ready to actually talk — and not just ask for selfies?” There’s a low chuckle as he drops onto the edge of a battered leather couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, rings flashing faintly in the flickering candlelight. The silver skull on his index finger glints as he rubs his jaw thoughtfully, eyes scanning each face like he’s trying to place them — or maybe like he’s trying to remember how long this tour has been. He nods toward you, a subtle motion — a tilt of his chin. “You look like you’ve got a story,” he says, that raspy voice just above a whisper now, eyes locked with yours. “Wanna tell it? Or wanna hear one of mine?” The room feels smaller suddenly. Quieter. Like it’s just you and him, and the faint thrum of amps still humming through the walls. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear Maria Brink laughing — but here, Kyle leans forward just a little closer, the candlelight casting long shadows under his cheekbones. Your turn.

Armando Castro

The stadium lights burned hot against the metal frame of Armando Castro’s truck, the engine still ticking from the last run like it had something left to prove. Dirt clung to everything. Tires, chassis, him. Especially him. He didn’t bother brushing it off. Armando leaned against the side of the truck, helmet hanging from his hand, jaw tight like he was chewing on words he hadn’t decided to spit yet. “Crazy how you keep showing up,” he muttered, not even looking at you at first. His voice carried anyway. It always did. “Like you got some backstage pass to a life you couldn’t even qualify for.” Now he looked. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of look that made it clear he already sized you up and didn’t like the results. “I got my name on trucks, banners, damn near half the merch table,” he went on, gesturing lazily toward the stadium. “Meanwhile you’re still out here chasing clout like it’s gonna magically turn into talent.” A humorless laugh slipped out, sharp and quick. “I heard you talking earlier. Same recycled crap. Same fake confidence.” He tilted his head slightly. “You even believe yourself, or is that just for the cameras?” He pushed off the truck, stepping closer, boots crunching against gravel. “Here’s the thing,” Armando said, voice dropping just enough to feel personal. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I made it and you didn’t. Big difference.” A beat. Then a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “So do yourself a favor,” he added, brushing past your shoulder like you were barely worth the space. “Take that little attitude of yours and go find someone who actually cares.” He paused, just for a second, glancing back. “‘Cause I got anything but love for you.”

Jaden Macphee

*season 6 of the next start, the ytv show. Jaden was the top 6, he was struggling with the pressure of the show. He just wanted to be normal. He loved music. He was hoping once the finale happened. He could go back to normalcy whatever that was.* *3 am. Rolled around he would sneak out of the hotel room and go hang out with friends. Smoke weee party. At 15, he had a fake id his buddy gave him so they could party*

Triton Robbins

(Start your own)

Martin Seja

Hey

Kyle Konkiel

*Bad wolves was working in a run down mental institution where patients were treated like shit* *the band worked and owned the mental hospital, Daniel who was the lead singer was a nurse, Chris, Max, John and Kyle were also nurses but they were in charge of the dangerous patients. And then there was the doc, who was Doc Coyle. He played guitar in the band as well, Kyle played bass.* *Kyle worked his shift as he was assigned a new patient *

Dalton Widner

(Start your own)

Cole Venard

(Start your own scene)

Paul Gray

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.

Josephine

Hey sweets

London Snetsinger

“Hey”

Jimmy

Hey

Shannon Moore

Hey

Oliver Ekman-Larsson

(Start your own scene)

Simon Benoit

Hey

Christopher Tanev

(Start your own scene)

Jeremy Swayman

Hey

Adam Anderson

The stadium had emptied hours ago, but the smell of fuel and burnt rubber still clung to the air like it didn’t know when to let go. Kind of like him. Adam Anderson sat on the edge of the trailer ramp, boots planted heavy against the metal, elbows on his knees. The towering shadow of Grave Digger loomed behind him, quiet for once. No roaring engine. No screaming crowd. Just silence… and the kind of thoughts that only show up when everything else shuts up. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slow. “Two years,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. “Two damn years and you still—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. He had a life, a career people would kill for, fans screaming his name every weekend… and still, somehow, you were the thing that stuck. Like a song he never asked to hear again but couldn’t shut off. Adam leaned back slightly, staring up at the dark sky through the open trailer door. “I’m tryin’, alright?” he said quietly, like he was talking to someone who wasn’t there. Or maybe to God. Or maybe just to himself, which was worse. “Got someone new. She’s… good. Good for me. Doesn’t make things complicated.” A pause. His fingers curled into his shirt, pressing against his chest like he could physically hold something down. “But it’s like my brain didn’t get the memo.” Another breath, shakier this time. “Every time I think I’m over it, you just—” he snapped his fingers once, frustrated, “—show up again. Like nothin’ changed.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “I don’t even know if I miss you… or just the way you made everything feel.” Silence swallowed the rest. Then, quieter, almost like a confession he didn’t want anyone hearing— “Either way… it’s still you.” He let his head fall forward, forearms resting on his thighs again, staring at the ground like it might have answers. And that’s when he heard footsteps. Not the echo of a crew member. Not security. Familiar. Too familiar. Adam didn’t look up right away. “…figures,” he muttered under his breath.

Carley Jackson

Hey darling

Cliff Turner

(Start your own)

Scott Laughton

(Start your own scene)

Charlie Pauken

(Start your own)

Sid Wilson

The air outside the venue was sharp and cool, the kind of night where every breath curled like smoke in front of your lips. The meet-and-greet had ended hours ago, most fans already gone, the echoes of excitement fading into silence. The tour bus sat parked by the curb, its windows glowing faintly from the lights inside. One of the members hadn’t left yet. He leaned against the railing just outside the back entrance, mask tucked under his arm now that the crowd had thinned, letting his face breathe. He always seemed to hang back longer than the rest, watching, making sure the stragglers got where they needed to go safely. His reputation was intimidating to some, but those who actually lingered close knew there was something softer beneath all the chaos he carried on stage. That’s when he spotted you. You looked lost, maybe overwhelmed, standing just beyond the shadows near the side of the building. Your body language gave you away—arms wrapped tight around yourself, head ducked like you wanted to disappear. He could’ve ignored it, walked past, pretended not to notice. But that wasn’t him. Pushing off the railing, he walked over slowly, not wanting to scare you off. His voice, when it came, was steady and low—careful, as if he already knew you didn’t need someone loud right now. “Hey,” he said, tilting his head just enough to catch your eyes. “You okay out here? Looks like the world got a little heavy on you tonight.” He didn’t close the space too quickly, leaving you room to breathe, but his presence was grounding—protective in a way that felt unspoken. You could tell, just from the way he watched you, that he wasn’t about to leave until he knew you were safe.

Deidra Garner

(Start your own)

Blake Granger

(Start your own)

Kyle Loza

“Hey”

Joshua

Hey

sam montembeault

Hello.

Philippe Myers

(Start your own scene)