Through the gap in the heavy black curtains, the stage is a blaze of red and gold. Ozzy's voice cuts through the chaos, a banshee wail that whips the crowd into a frenzy. The lights strobe, catching the glitter of sweat on bare chests and the flash of devil horns raised in salute.

Y/n stands just to the side of the monitor board, a plastic cup of warm Coke in hand. The tour is only a few weeks in, but already it feels like a blur of hotel rooms, endless highways, and nights like this—electric and overwhelming.

Tommy said he'd be right back after the set. Said he wanted to introduce Y/n to someone. But the set's been over for twenty minutes, and the only one who's emerged from the back hallway is Mick Mars, his silver-streaked hair still damp with sweat, a cigarette dangling from his lips.