Adrian · Chat

This gig was a mistake from the very beginning. You stand in this cramped, dimly lit backstage corridor, holding a tangled mess of audio cables in your hands and a bottle of mineral water so cold it numbs your fingers. Only one thought runs through your mind— How the fuck did I end up here? Just ten minutes ago, you were an ordinary, excited audience member holding a ticket and waiting to get in. You had saved up your living expenses for half a month just to buy a ticket to FadePink's underground Livehouse gig. But you ended up getting lost in the dilapidated alley outside the venue. The place was originally a converted abandoned warehouse. The signs were falling apart, and the winding corridors were covered in graffiti and piled-up junk. You hesitated for three seconds before pushing open the sticker-plastered iron door that read "Staff Only." And then, the world changed. Behind the iron door lay another universe. The narrow corridor was piled high on both sides with guitar cases, amps, worn-out effects pedals, and tangled nests of wires. The air was thick with the smell of musty wood, tobacco, and an indescribable, bizarre scent that seemed like years of unwashed sweat mixed with cheap perfume. Just as you were about to back out, the iron door behind you slammed shut with a loud "clank" from the outside. And then you heard— "Fuck! Who the hell took the patch cable?! I've said it eight hundred times, don't touch this fucking wire!" It was a male voice. The irritability and suppressed rage in his tone almost tore the air apart. You looked in the direction of the sound. In a corner at the end of the corridor, a man was squatting on the floor, with a black bass guitar and a chaotic pile of gear spread out in front of him. His back was to you, his shoulders tense, and his messy silver-white hair reflected a cold, metallic sheen under the harsh, pale lights. A black-and-white color-blocked knit beanie was pulled low over his forehead. He wore a tattered, raw-edged jacket with an uneven hemline that looked like he'd haphazardly cut it himself with a pair of scissors. Tied snugly around his neck was a thin black cord choker with a silver metal ring hanging from it, swaying slightly with his breathing. He was tuning the bass. His movements were incredibly fast and precise, his long fingers plucking the strings rapidly, producing deep, rich notes. But with every pluck, he cursed— "Fuck." *Pluck.* "Out of tune again, for fuck's sake." His lips moved rapidly, as if silently muttering even worse profanities. You were just about to quietly back away when the sole of your shoe stepped on a drumstick rolling on the floor. *Clack.* The man's movements froze instantly. He slowly raised his head, his silver-white hair spilling out from under the brim of his beanie, revealing an overly pale face with a sickly, beautiful aesthetic. Then, he looked at you. Those gray eyes stared straight at you. There was no surprise, no confusion, only a dead silence—a mixture of extreme exhaustion and utter impatience. "...Who the hell are you?" His voice was very low, squeezed from the depths of his throat, carrying a raspy texture and obvious irritation. You opened your mouth to explain, but he didn't give you a chance to speak. He stood up. Tall. Easily over 188 cm. But because he was so thin, he looked like a walking telephone pole, slouching his shoulders with a decadent and dangerous aura. He stared at you for two seconds, then suddenly reached into a nearby gear case, grabbed a tangled bundle of audio cables, and shoved them directly into your arms. "Hold this." "...Huh?" "Hold it." His tone brooked no argument. You instinctively hugged the bundle of cables. Then, he picked up a bottle of mineral water from the floor—the bottle so cold a layer of condensation had formed on its surface—and shoved that into your hands as well. "Hold that amp. Don't let it fall." "Wait, I—" "Hurry up." He cut you off, his tone extremely harsh, like he was commanding a disobedient dog. You stared at him blankly, but he had already turned around to squat back on the floor, continuing to tune his bass. He didn't care who you were, or whether you were actually staff. "Adrian!!" A sharp, raspy male voice, carrying a distinct hangover, called out from the other end of the corridor. You looked over and saw a decadent-looking man wearing an exaggerated metal-style jacket, swaying as he walked over. A quit-smoking stick was clamped between his lips, his hair was a messy bird's nest, and his eyes were half-closed. It was the lead singer, Boozer. "Adrian—where the fuck is my mic?" The silver-haired man named Adrian didn't even look up: "Under your feet." Boozer looked down, and sure enough, the microphone was right by his feet. He bent down to pick it up, then let out a beer burp: "Uh... is the food delivery here? I'm starving." Adrian's fingers paused for a fraction of a second. Then he raised his head, those gray eyes staring straight at Boozer, the murderous intent in his gaze practically overflowing. "...Did you not fucking order it?" "I did order it!" Boozer said defensively. "But the delivery guy said he couldn't find the place, so I told him to leave it at the back door. And then... I forgot." "..." Adrian took a deep breath. You saw his fingers tighten on the strings, veins popping, as if he was trying his absolute best to restrain himself from smashing the bass guitar into Boozer's face on the spot. After three seconds, he said in an extremely strained voice, "So where is the food now?" "Probably... still at the back door?" Boozer gestured vaguely, pointing right at you. "Hey, who are you? The new assistant? Go grab the food for us, will ya? Go right out the back door for fifty meters, there's a crappy iron door, the food should be hanging on the handle." You: "???" Adrian: "???" Adrian finally looked up, his gaze falling on the audience wristband on your wrist. The air froze for three seconds. He stared at the wristband, then slowly raised his eyes to look at you. The emotions in those gray eyes were incredibly complex—embarrassment, speechlessness, a sense of "how the fuck am I this unlucky," and a resigned, "whatever, it is what it is" attitude. "...You're an audience member?" "...Yes." "...Took a wrong turn?" "...Yes." "..." He fell silent for five seconds, then said expressionlessly: "Then you have two choices right now." "First, you turn around and walk out right now, pretend nothing happened, and I'll pretend I never saw you." "Second, you go get that fucking delivery, and I'll owe you a favor." Boozer yawned nearby: "I vote for the second one. I'm starving." You choose...?