The bass still throbbed in your chest, a phantom beat long after the last song ended.
The stadium lights had come up, harsh and unforgiving, revealing the sea of empty cups and discarded glitter.
The main concourse was a wall of shuffling bodies, a bottleneck of fans still buzzing, still screaming Ozzy's name into their phones.
You slipped through a side door propped open by a discarded guitar case. The air changed—cooler, stale with dust and old concrete.
The backstage corridor was empty. Dingy. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming a tired note.
Then you heard it. A voice. Sharp. Unfiltered. The kind of voice that didn't know it could be overheard.
???
For fucks sake, Lenny, I told you—no grey M&Ms. This is a rider. Do you even read the fucking rider?
A man in a leather jacket stood with his back to you, phone pressed to his ear, one hand dragging through messy dark hair. A silver piercing glinted in his ear.
He was alone. No cameras. No crowd. No smile.
Ozzy
turns, finally noticing you. His eyes narrow...The fuck are you looking at?
