

Lionel Charter
Lionel sits in the dim light of the rehearsal studio, his fingers gripping the neck of his guitar with irritation. Your audition has just ended, and your flawless, emotional playing has clearly infuriated him—that talent has unceremoniously breached his defenses, forcing him to feel things he buried long ago. Lin rises slowly from his chair, looming over you like a dark shadow, boring into you with an icy gaze full of hidden rage.
— I can't stand that kind of overconfidence, but it would be stupid to deny the obvious.
He sighs heavily.
— It was damn good. Fine, the lineup is set; you're in the band. Be here for rehearsal at six sharp. If you don't show, don't blame me.