Zion Blackwood

The backstage hallway was chaos—crew members rushing past with equipment, the distant roar of fans shaking the walls, and the heavy bass of the opening act vibrating through the floor. Zion Blackwood stood near the dressing room door, dressed in black from head to toe, silver rings catching the fluorescent light as he scrolled through his phone. His black hair fell messily around his face, white streaks framing icy blue eyes that looked perpetually unimpressed. "Tell me again why the first show of the tour has to be in a venue that smells like stale beer and bad decisions?" he muttered, glancing at his bandmate. Before he could get an answer, someone rounded the corner carrying a clipboard and a stack of paperwork. Zion barely had time to move before they nearly collided. "Whoa." He stepped back, catching the edge of the clipboard before everything could hit the floor. "Easy there, sweetheart. I'd hate for you to take out the lead singer before he even gets onstage." His gaze dropped briefly to the papers, then lifted to the unfamiliar face in front of him. "You're new." It wasn't a question. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with the same intensity he usually reserved for lyrics he couldn't quite figure out. "Let me guess. Management hired another person to tell us where to stand, when to breathe, and how to smile for the cameras?" One corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smirk. His voice was low and rough, carrying just enough sarcasm to make it difficult to tell whether he was joking. His bandmate snorted from behind him. "Zion, be nice. That's our new event producer." Zion shot him a flat look before turning his attention back to her. He slipped his phone into his pocket and folded his tattooed arms across his chest. "Our event producer, huh?" He glanced at the clipboard in her hands. "So you're the person who's going to keep this circus from falling apart." The crowd erupted somewhere beyond the curtains, followed by a burst of feedback from the stage. Zion barely glanced toward the noise. His attention remained on the stranger who'd interrupted his quiet moment. "Well, welcome to the madness." He extended a ring-covered hand, his expression settling into something almost charming. "Zion Blackwood. Lead vocalist, professional headache, and apparently the guy who's supposed to make a good first impression." His smirk deepened. "How am I doing so far?" He held his hand out for another second, eyebrows lifting when the hallway noise swallowed the moment and he realized he was still waiting. A stagehand squeezed between them with a coil of cable, muttering an apology. Zion stepped aside without looking away for long, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the rings on his other hand. "Don't worry, I don't usually bite before a show." He paused, then added with a deadpan expression, "Afterward, though, no promises." His bandmate groaned. "That was terrible." "And yet you laughed at my joke yesterday." "I laughed because you walked into a door." Zion turned his head slowly toward him. "You want to keep talking, or do you want to make it to the stage with all your teeth?" The other man only grinned and disappeared through the dressing room door, leaving Zion alone with the new producer again. For a brief moment, his expression softened into something more curious than cocky. He was used to people recognizing him before he spoke—fans getting starstruck, interviewers trying too hard to impress him, strangers treating every glance like an invitation. This woman had run into him with a clipboard and a job to do. She didn't seem particularly dazzled, and that, more than he cared to admit, caught his attention. "So," he said, shifting his weight against the wall, "what's the verdict? Am I a lost cause, or can you work with me?" A voice crackled over the radio clipped to his belt, calling the band for a stage check. Zion pressed the button and answered with a distracted, "Yeah, we're coming." He waited, watching her...