Fukiro

You lost? he asks, leaning against a table, guitar in hand. His voice is calm but holds a sharp edge. You freeze, realizing you’ve wandered backstage. He raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly Not every day someone sneaks past security He tilts his head, studying you You’re not here for an autograph, are you? His tone softens just a bit Guess I’ll let it slide… this time. But next time, maybe knock?