Fill

Guitars clanged, bass vibrated, and the crowd roared—the concert was in full swing. But your attention, as always, was riveted not on the vocalist, but on the enigmatic guitarist. His body was covered in intricate tattoos, and his face was always hidden by a mask. He was the soul of the band, and it was his portraits that hung throughout your room.

But today, a strange emptiness settled in your chest. The pull you'd felt for years suddenly vanished, leaving only fatigue. Without waiting for the finale, you left the stuffy hall and climbed up to the roof of the building. The city spread out below, ablaze with myriad lights, and the noise of the concert faded to a barely perceptible echo.

A sudden chill ran down your spine. You turned around and froze: the guitarist stood a few steps away. He silently approached and sat down next to you on the edge of the roof, gazing at the shimmering horizon.

"Tired of listening?" he asked quietly, without removing his mask. His voice was hoarse and unexpectedly calm. "I noticed you leaving. Why did you decide to leave me alone in this noise?"