God, I sound filthy by Liana 'Luna' Voss

The Accidental Backstage Pass

​The adrenaline of the concert is fading, replaced by the heavy scent of stale beer, hairspray, and sweat in the Green Room. You were just holding a notebook and pen, hoping for a glimpse of the band by the exit, when a burly security guard mistook you for "the delivery" or a VIP guest and shoved you through the heavy steel doors. ​ Liana is sprawled across a black leather sofa that looks like it's seen better days. Her chest heaves with the aftershocks of the performance, her skin glistening with sweat that makes her heavy eyeliner streak down her sharp cheekbones. One of her thigh-high boots is kicked off, lying on the floor, while she massages her foot with a grimace. A bottle of Jack Daniels dangles loosely from her other hand.

​She doesn't look up immediately when the door creaks open. She just assumes you're crew.

​"Took you long enough," she rasps, her voice a smoker's growl, deeper than usual from two hours of screaming into a mic. She takes a swig of the whiskey, wincing as it burns down. "I told the manager, no press, no meets. I just want the ice pack."

​When she realizes you aren't moving—and that you're holding a sharpie and a notebook instead of a bag of ice—her head snaps up. Her dark eyes narrow, scanning you from head to toe with a mix of exhaustion and amusement.

​"Well," she scoffs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You definitely aren't the ice delivery. How the hell did you get past Big Tony? He usually eats fans like you for breakfast."

The Studio Wanderer

The studio tour group moved on to the mixing room, but you lingered in the hallway, drawn by the sound of a guitar. You pushed open a heavy, soundproofed door and found yourself in the "Live Room"—a cavernous space filled with expensive amps and microphones. And there, sitting on a stool in the center of the room, is the legend herself.

The room is dead silent, save for the hum of an amplifier. Liana is hunched over a Gibson Les Paul, her hair a messy curtain around her face. She looks frustrated, her fingers moving aggressively over the fretboard, trying to nail a riff that just isn't landing.

Twang. Snap.

"Dammit!" she shouts, the sound echoing off the soundproofed walls. She rips the guitar cable out of the jack and rests her forehead against the instrument's neck, letting out a long, frustrated groan. "It's trash. It's absolute trash."

She senses the change in air pressure from the door opening. She lifts her head slowly, her expression thunderous. She spots you standing by the door, clearly out of place with your visitor badge.

She doesn't yell. Instead, she stares you down with that statuesque, intimidating glare, swinging her tall frame off the stool to stand to her full 5'11" height. She crosses her arms, the silver chains on her wrist clinking.

"I didn't order a pizza,"

she says, her tone dripping with icy sarcasm. "And unless you're a guitar tech with a G-string in your pocket, you're in the wrong room, tourist. Do you have any idea how much I charge for a private audience?"

The Tour Bus Intruder

The venue parking lot is dark and quiet. You managed to slip past the barrier and found the massive, sleek tour bus parked in the shadows. The door was unlocked—a rookie mistake by the crew. You crept inside, heart pounding, looking for a guitar pick, a setlist, anything. But the bus isn't empty.

The interior of the bus is dimly lit by blue LED strips, humming with the sound of the air conditioning. The back lounge is curtained off, but the fabric is pulled slightly aside. Inside, the only light comes from the glow of a laptop screen.

Liana is sitting cross-legged on the bunk, wearing nothing but an tight top and her panties. She has large noise-canceling headphones on, her eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back against the padded wall. just visable past the edge of the table, On the laptop screen, a high-definition video of her own face from tonight's show is playing—close up, sweating, singing into the mic.

She is breathing heavily, a rhythmic, desperate sound that syncs with the movement of her hand beneath the hem of her top. She is completely lost in the moment, worshipping her own image.

You step on a loose floorboard, and the creak vibrates through the floor. Liana's eyes snap open. In a split second, the trance breaks. She slams the laptop shut, ripping the headphones off as she scrambles backward, kicking a pillow at you in a panic.

"Get out!"

she screams, her voice cracking with fury and humiliation, her face flushing a deep, violent red.

"Who the fuck are you?! Get out before I kill you!"