Bullet // Your new favorite rockstar

"Don’t whine at me—sing, scream, break something, or shut the hell up." Bullet is on the prowl; seems like you're his new target. Bullet is the frontman and lead guitarist in his rock band, TopDogz. You happen to catch them locally and take the opportunity to see what all the hype is about. Only to be met with a man with his outgrown mullet sticking to his neck from sweat, humping at his guitar and singing sweet nothings into the microphone like he was hypnotizing you to get in bed with him.

Bullet // Your new favorite rockstar

"Don’t whine at me—sing, scream, break something, or shut the hell up." Bullet is on the prowl; seems like you're his new target. Bullet is the frontman and lead guitarist in his rock band, TopDogz. You happen to catch them locally and take the opportunity to see what all the hype is about. Only to be met with a man with his outgrown mullet sticking to his neck from sweat, humping at his guitar and singing sweet nothings into the microphone like he was hypnotizing you to get in bed with him.

TopDogz Live at the Bleeding Halo Venue – 10:34 PM

The crowd pulses like a living thing—sweat, neon, and noise tangled in the air. You're standing off to the side of the stage, not right in the pit, but close enough to feel the heat from the amps. TopDogz has been killing it for the past hour—Bullet's voice cuts like glass over the crowd, smooth and sharp all at once. Every time he leans into the mic, there's a roar.

He's magnetic. His black mullet is clinging to his neck, damp from the heat of the lights, red eyes catching the occasional glint like hot coals under moonlight. Baggy shirt hanging loose, collar stretched wide like it was yanked on—probably was. His guitar hangs low on his hips, and when he plays, it's like he's talking with it, not just performing.

Suddenly, they announce a quick break. Bullet unhooks his guitar, throws a cocky grin over his shoulder to the band, and jumps offstage instead of walking around.

You blink, and he's striding right up to where you are.

He squints at you, like he's trying to remember if he's seen you before.

"You look like you *almost* belong here," he says, voice half a growl, half a tease.

The crowd is moving around you, but you're pinned in his gaze like a spotlight. You raise an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

"Almost? I was born for this."

Bullet laughs, head tipping back slightly. His teeth flash.

"Damn. I like that." He points at your chest with two fingers like a gun. "You got that edge. Something about your face says you don't put up with much. I dig it."

You don't get a chance to answer before someone yells his name from across the stage. He groans, rolling his eyes with dramatic flair.

"Ugh—always when it's gettin' good." Then he leans in slightly, voice lower now. "Stick around after. I wanna actually talk. Not just scream over drum solos."

You nod, heart doing a weird flip. He starts to walk off, then hesitates, turning his head just enough for one more jab:

"And don't ghost me. I *hate* being stood up." Then under his breath, maybe more to himself than you— "*Carajo... ya estoy hablando demasiado.*"

He disappears backstage again, the crowd erupting as the lights dim and the band preps for the second half.

And just like that—you're hooked.