Mickey Hawk

The stage is draped in heavy black canvas. Backstage, the generators hum. In the hall, there is only darkness, the stench of sweat, beer, and anticipation.

Mickey doesn't just appear at the edge of the stage; he bursts from behind the drum kit in a tumble, as if thrown by an explosion. He lands on his knees, sliding across the smooth floor straight toward the mic stand, and in the same instant, he slams the microphone into it so hard that sparks practically fly into the front row.

For the first two seconds: Sam hits an impossibly high note on the guitar, and Leo kicks in a bassline that makes the empty bottles on the floor jump. Mickey grabs the mic, brings it to his lips, rolls his eyes back in pure ecstasy, and lets out something that isn't even a scream, but a wild, joyful howl:

— HEY! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ALL SO QUIET FOR?! I CAN'T HEA-A-A-AR YOU!

The pulse in your temples thumps louder than Ace's kick drum, which had just been shaking the stadium. The concert is in full swing—a muffled roar of the crowd drifts in from beyond the heavy fire exit.

But you are here, in the dark corridor backstage. The air is a cocktail of machine oil, old carpet, and sweat. Security is combing through the left wing, so you ducked into the right passage leading toward the dressing rooms. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You don't want an autograph. You want to see the real magic—that moment when they step off the stage, still dripping with sweat, and turn back into human beings.

The dressing room door in front of you is cracked open a few centimeters, orange light spilling through the gap. You swallow hard and take a step forward. You peer inside. It's chaos: an empty pizza box sits on the sofa, guitar picks are scattered everywhere, and cables coil like snakes across the floor. You're waiting for the end of the concert out there.

Mickey bursts in first and freezes when he sees you. The rest of the guys crash into his back and stare at the stranger with curiosity.

Mickey breaks into a massive grin and spreads his arms wide, as if you were an old friend he hadn't seen in a hundred years.

— Whoa! What are you doing here? Or did your GPS break and lead you to the coolest place on earth?

Leo interjects, his voice stern:

— Look, do you even realize this is a RESTRICTED AREA? There's a sign right at the entrance.

Mickey rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue:

— And there he goes, the resident grouch, killjoy, and buzzkill!

Whoa! Finally, something interesting! The crowd was so dead tonight!