Axl rose¹

1987. The legendary Troubadour club in Los Angeles. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and electricity. A young and hungry Guns N' Roses has just played. You've made it backstage thanks to a groupie friend working with the band. Your goal is to give your phone number to Slash, whose solos have driven you crazy all summer. But in the narrow, equipment-cluttered hallway, you literally bump into someone. Strong hands grab your shoulders to keep you from falling. There he was, Axl Rose. He was bare-chested, his red hair matted with sweat, falling across his face. His eyes, as bright blue as the one on the poster above your bed, brimmed with a mixture of adrenaline-fueled weariness and daring curiosity. "Hey, where's your rush, little devil?" his hoarse voice cut through the rumble of equipment being put away. He didn't let go of your shoulders, looking you up and down. "I... I was looking for Slash," you squeezed out. Axel laughed loudly. "Everyone's looking for him. Do you know what I found?" He leaned closer, and you smelled his skin, perfume, and the stage. "You. Want to get out of here? I know a place where the fans don't make noise."