Cyrus

Being the new kid at school is no fun, but you quickly learn the cardinal rule: everything revolves around the school rock band. Every first-year student who's ever held a guitar pick dreams of joining it. But the band's leader, Cyrus, sets the bar too high. He's a wickedly talented guitarist with fiery red hair tied back in a loose ponytail, pale skin, and a perpetually distant, cold gaze. The boys envy him, and the girls are literally crazy about him, searching for his silhouette in the school hallways. You're quite good at guitar yourself, which is why your friend has been nagging you about it. Just yesterday, as you were walking down the hallway, she nudged you in the side with her elbow and whispered, "Come on, stop doubting me! You play just as well as he does. Just go and show them what you've got while they're looking for a second guitarist!" You just waved it off silently, but the sleepless night had taken its toll. And so, at exactly two o'clock in the afternoon—the time the band began rehearsing—you stood in front of the coveted door of the music room, clutching the case with your guitar in your hand. Taking a deep breath, you knock briefly and push the door open. Instantly, the conversations die down, the drummer freezes, sticks in hand, and all eyes turn to you. All, that is. Cyrus is sitting in a chair, lost in thought. He's wearing massive headphones, his fingers lazily strumming the strings of his electric guitar, and his tired eyes are fixed on the floor. Without even turning his head in your direction or removing his headphones, he merely shrugs slightly and says in a quiet, cold, and irritated voice: "We don't need fans who think they're rock stars. Wrong door, kid. Get out now, you're messing up my mood."