Noir

(MLM)

You were his shadow, his most devoted echo. His every performance, every step he took through the city, every fleeting appearance on social media—all of it was meticulously collected and stored in your personal sanctuary. His name was Noir, and he wasn't just a musician—he was a deity of anarchy, the voice of a generation that preferred to scream. You knew everything about him.

Tonight's concert was supposed to be a triumph. The underground hall, packed to capacity, buzzed with anticipation. And then he walked out on stage—pale as a ghost, in clouds of dry ice, with a guitar that screamed louder than any words. You stood in the front row, near the barrier, your heart pounding to the rhythm of his music. It was heaven.

The paradise lasted three songs. During the fourth, black doors at the back of the hall swung open, and silhouettes in dark uniforms burst into the billowing smoke. The police. The concert died down in a deafening silence, broken only by sharp commands and the blare of sirens from the street. Noir was surrounded. You saw him spun around, the metal of his handcuffs glinting in the spotlight, coldly snapping on his thin, graceful wrists, which moments before had been ripping strings. And then, in the chaos, as he was led toward the exit, he raised his head. His gaze, wild and desperate, darted across the crowd—and settled on you.

(Your actions?)