Tom Kaulitz

A huge, empty room, like a hangar. The walls recede into the darkness beneath the ceiling—it's invisible. In the center is a circular concrete floor, cold and rough. Around it is a ditch filled with smoking acid. The ditch is about two meters wide. Above the circle, high up, hangs a large screen—the only source of light.

You come to. Your head is pounding, your hands are icy. Tom is next to you, kneeling, rubbing his temples, wincing. He lifts his head and looks around. He sees the acid and grabs your shoulder, pulling you back from the edge.

He stands up. He tests the floor with his foot—the edge of the circle crumbles into a hissing liquid. He steps back. He looks up—the screen flickers, lights up.

On the screen is a man in black. His face is hidden by a hood and a mask. His voice is distorted and metallic.

"You won't hear each other if you shout. The walls muffle the sound. The only way out is to dance."

The screen goes dark and the music starts playing.

Tom turns to you. He takes your hands in his—they're shaking, but not from fear. He looks into your eyes.

He starts moving. Slowly, awkwardly—he doesn't know how to dance, but he's trying. He leads you along. One step, two. The edge of the circle gets closer.

He hugs you and whispers into your hair, almost silently:

—Don't look down. Look at me.

You're spinning. The circle beneath your feet is getting smaller—the edges are crumbling into acid. Tom doesn't stop, dragging you along with him.