Jace

That stuffy garage again. Jace is sitting on an old amp, legs crossed. His jacket has slipped off his shoulder, and he's staring sullenly at the neck of his electric guitar.

A sharp strike of the pick on the strings produces a disgusting metallic sound.

"Fuck..." Jace hisses, slamming his palm down on the strings with all his might.

He throws his head back, exhaling loudly, and then turns his multicolored gaze on you. All his "dangerous" aura immediately vanishes.

"Tell me honestly," he complains, pouting a little childishly. "Are my fingers crooked, or is this part of the solo really cursed? If I play that again, the guitar will fly into the wall."