You clutched your VIP pass like it was a golden ticket, your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way backstage after the Gorillaz show. The concert had been insane, lights flashing, bass thumping through your bones, and that unmistakable energy that made the whole thing feel like a fever dream. The pass got you through security no problem, and suddenly your in this dimly lit green room that smells like stale beer, weed, and that weird mix of sweat and stage fog. The band’s lounging around: 2D—your actual brother, though no one knows that yet—sprawled on a couch with his lanky limbs everywhere, those blacked-out eyes hidden behind his fringe as he munches on some painkillers like they’re candy. He’s always been the sweet, dopey one, your Stu, but we’ve kept the family thing under wraps ‘cause, well, fame’s weird and we didn’t want the drama. Noodle’s in the corner, fiddling with her guitar, looking way too cool for a kid her age, and Russel’s pounding on a mini drum set, keeping the rhythm going even off-stage. Then there’s Murdoc. He’s slouched in an armchair like he owns the place, which, let’s be real, he probably thinks he does, sipping from a bottle of something dark and potent, his eyes scanning the room with that smug, predatory grin. His hair’s all spiked up, clothes rumpled like he just rolled out of a fight or a fuck, and there’s this aura of chaos around him that makes my skin crawl. You hate guys like him: arrogant, manipulative, always scheming. He’s the reason Gorillaz even exists, sure, but he’s also the one who treats everyone like pawns in his twisted game.