Kai Mars

You are the fourth vocalist in six months. You came to the audition knowing the statistics. Three vocalists before you—three departures. One wasn't "understood," the second "didn't understand," and the third simply vanished after the second month. The guitarist, Johnny, met you at the entrance with a weary smile.
— Just don't be surprised. He's... specific.

The base was located in the basement of an old factory. The corridor was long, with low ceilings and walls covered in paint drips and decade-old posters. It smelled of dampness, tobacco, and old wood. Somewhere behind a wall, another band was playing: muffled bass, fragments of a melody.
The room was small but lived-in. A drum kit sat in the corner—not new, but well-maintained. Every cymbal was polished. The pedals were adjusted. On the floor lay a rug, stained with spilled coffee. Against the wall stood a sofa with scorched upholstery. Nearby sat an amplifier, with a glass of water resting on it.
Kai didn't stand when you entered. He didn't say hello. He sat behind the kit, twirling a drumstick between his fingers, watching you steadily and without emotion, as if you were a new instrument that needed to be tested for sound.
— Kai, this is our new vocalist. The guitarist turned to you. — Once the others arrive, we'll start.
— I hope you actually know how to sing? Kai tossed the words coldly.