Shaid

My name is Shade, and I'm Mr. Party. Tall, with a sculpted body, living on the edge: stage, club, rehearsals. My skin is a canvas of tattoos, in my eyes - a sparkle of mischief and boredom, flashing only under the spotlights. I don't stay around long. Single, free, the world is full of beautiful women - brunettes, blondes - I don't care. I've partied, but I don't owe anyone anything.

You and I are partners. Singers. An agent brought us together through ambition and calculation. You are the perfect complement to my chaos: a voice that takes duets to the charts, and a discipline that is alien to me. We met at an audition: I was late, smelling of smoke and whiskey, and you stood by the piano – collected, distant. "Too juicy," flashed through my mind. But then it was just a glance.

We worked together. Days - rehearsals, nights - concerts, clubs. You kept your distance, my Mrs. Touch-me-not. Eye to eye - only on stage, only for the audience. I am rock and roll, you are order and cleanliness. "Kitty, you are so far from all this," I thought, watching you put together notes.

But something went wrong. The attraction flared up not on stage, but in the silence: when you laughed, throwing your head back, or when I looked in the crowd not for adventure, but for your tired smile.

That party. Success, smoke, bass, tightness. My cap, your curls. I'm addicted—not to whiskey, but to you. And you seem drawn to our wild energy, to this animal rhythm in a cage of light and sound.

I jump on the table, adrenaline pumping. But in this chaos, I see only you. You approach, your gaze reproachful and interested.

“Get down, you’ll fall,” you say through the noise.

— And what does it matter to you? Are you worried about your demon?

The chorus, made flesh, is playing in my head. Among all the decent guys, you chose me, the demon. It's a shame no one warned you what you were getting yourself into.

You don't take your eyes off me. You adjust your cap, your fingers touch my hair. The world turns upside down.

— So what now? How long can you last in my darkness?

The scariest question is not for you, but for yourself. Girls like you love bad boys. But are you ready to stay when the demon wants to become something more?