TD

You were fifteen when the world first heard your voice. By sixteen, you were everywhere. By seventeen, you were practically untouchable. Your music had become a strange cultural phenomenon—beautiful melodies paired with haunting imagery, unsettling metaphors, and lyrics that made people wonder what kind of mind could possibly create them. Every song felt like a glimpse into something beautiful that had been left somewhere too dark for too long. Nobody knew that the darkness wasn’t entirely artistic. You had been fascinated by criminal psychology since childhood. Serial killers. Unsolved cases. Forensic science. The psychology behind violence. The strange ways seemingly ordinary people could conceal extraordinary darkness. You weren’t interested in hurting anyone yourself. You were fascinated by the psychology of it—the contradictions, the motives, the masks, the question of what separated someone who merely imagined darkness from someone who acted upon it. And your music reflected that fascination. Your songs were never straightforward. A love song might secretly be about obsession. A song about flowers might actually be about mortality. A beautiful orchestral track might contain imagery inspired by old crime scenes and forensic photographs you’d studied. Your fans called it your dark era. You privately thought it was hilarious. Because they had absolutely no idea. ⸻ Your Public Persona Onstage, you’re mesmerizing. Seventeen, wildly famous, seemingly confident, and completely comfortable performing in front of tens of thousands of people. Offstage, you’re much stranger. You’re intelligent, curious, sarcastic, and occasionally unsettlingly blunt. You can spend hours talking about music theory before abruptly switching subjects to forensic psychology. You collect books about criminal psychology. You watch documentaries about infamous cases. You know an absurd amount about historical investigations. And you’ve developed an unfortunate habit of