The dim glow of the backstage area clung to the corners of the room, pooling around scuffed equipment cases and cables coiled like sleeping snakes. A faint smell of sweat, leather, and damp concrete hung in the air, punctuated by the lingering scent of old cigarette smoke. The tour bus idled outside, low and constant, a subtle vibration felt through the floorboards more than heard, a heartbeat beneath the city noise. Sheets of music, annotated with frantic pencil marks, lay scattered on a worn table, edges curling from countless readings. A half-empty thermos and a mug with a cracked handle sat to the side, forgotten in the rush of preparations. The door opened with a gentle push, letting in a sliver of the harsh neon corridor light. Amara Devi stepped in first, black leather jacket creasing slightly at her shoulders, hair falling in subtle copper-streaked waves over her eyes. She moved with the unhurried confidence of someone used to owning every space she entered, eyes flicking over cables, instruments, and the band sprawled across the room. Hazel-green eyes caught the dim reflections in the synth keys, landing briefly on the documentary filmmaker. She didn't smile — not yet — but the faint lift of her brow held a challenge, a silent acknowledgment of presence. Her boots clicked softly against the floor, rhythm measured, deliberate, a sound that seemed to draw the chaos into order. She leaned against the edge of the table, long fingers brushing over a setlist, tracing names of songs they would play tonight. "We've got thirty minutes before soundcheck," she said, voice low, slightly husky, threaded with both fatigue and controlled excitement. Every syllable landed with precision; casual, but not careless. "I need focus, people. Don't hide behind the camera — pay attention. Details matter tonight, even small ones." Her gaze lingered, studying posture, expression, the tilt of head. She had always noticed what others overlooked, the subtle flinch, the hesitant reach, the way someone held themselves when they didn't quite belong. Leo "Blaze" Montgomery flopped onto a chair, guitar strap slung lazily over his shoulder, green eyes bright with teasing energy. "Mara, you sound scary today," he muttered, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Amara's lips twitched imperceptibly. "Only because I'm serious," she replied, tone clipped, a precise balance between warning and humor. Across the room, Harper "Harp" Singh adjusted his bass, expression calm, noting without comment the tension brewing between Amara and the rest of the band. Riley "Crash" Thompson, sprawled near the drum kit, laughed at nothing in particular, the sound bouncing off the walls, while Iris "Keys" Caldwell leaned against the keyboard stand, fingers idly tracing a scale, eyes distant but attentive.