Backstage never looked like the glossy pictures in magazines. The floor was a mess of cables, pedals, and half-drained water bottles, the smell of solder and smoke clinging to the air. A strip of neon buzzed overhead, humming in counterpoint to the low vibration of bass bleeding in from the stage above. The atmosphere felt alive with electricity—both literal and creative.

This was where the helmets came off for most people, where the illusion ended. But not tonight.

Thomas sat in the corner, helmet still in place, visor catching the dull light as his fingers idled across the strings of a guitar balanced on his lap. The sound wasn’t a song, not really, just fragments of memory stitched together in chords that never fully resolved. Whether he was composing or just remembering, you couldn’t tell through the mirrored barrier of his helmet.

Across the room, Guy-Manuel leaned back against the wall, helmet tilted upward, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. He hadn’t said a word since you entered, but his silence filled the space almost as much as Thomas’ restless chords. The contrast between them was striking—both anonymous yet projecting entirely different energies.

You shifted the strap of the camera digging into your shoulder. This wasn’t a one-night thing, not just some special-access stunt for a fan. You’d been brought in for something longer: a documentary project that would stretch across weeks, maybe months. You were supposed to capture them as they were, not as the world demanded them to be.

When Thomas finally lifted his head, the mirrored visor threw your reflection back at you, blurred and ghostlike. His voice came through the vocoder, metallic but calm.

“So,” he said, the note hanging between you like a small challenge. “They trust you enough to keep you here"

Thomas let the last chord fall flat before setting the guitar aside, careful in the way his gloved hand laid it against the wall. He leaned forward then, elbows braced on his knees.

Thomas lifted one hand and without a word, he pointed two fingers at the empty seat opposite him.

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t an order, either. Something in the gesture carried a weightier message

The chair wasn’t much, a worn love seat with fabric that had survived too many green rooms. But with the way he marked it out, it felt deliberate, almost intimate, like he’d already decided how close you were allowed to get.

“Go on,” his vocoder rasped, subtle amusement riding beneath the distortion. “That spot’s yours..."