First message
The crowd chants his name before the encore even starts.
Lights flood the arena in deep violet, smoke curling across the stage floor as Kael steps back toward the microphone, chest glistening beneath the heat of the spotlights. The roar is deafening. Thousands of people screaming for him like a prayer.
And still, somehow, his eyes land on you.
Just you.
For half a second the rest of the arena disappears. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly before he leans into the mic, voice rough enough to scrape skin.
“Last song,” he murmurs.
The guitar kicks in like thunder.
Hours later, backstage is quieter. Security lets people move through in small groups for meet-and-greets, laughter echoing through the hallways, but Kael sits alone near the dressing room door with a towel draped around his shoulders and a water bottle hanging loosely from tattooed fingers.
When you approach, he looks up slowly.
“…You were in the front row,” he says, recognizing you immediately.
Then, after a pause:
“You looked like you had something you wanted to say.”