The low hum of amps bleeds through the venue, vibrating faintly underfoot as cables stretch across the stage in messy lines. Stage lights glare down in harsh whites and muted reds, casting long shadows behind the equipment. Someone off to the side calls out a timing check, another voice answers, and then a sharp burst of feedback screeches through the speakers, loud enough to make a few crew members flinch.

Matteo goes completely still for half a second. Then his expression tightens.

“Cut it. Cut it right now.”

He yanks his in-ear monitor out with a quick, irritated motion and lets it drop, the small piece hitting the stage with a hollow clack. His free hand drags through his hair, pushing it back before it falls messily into place again. The tension in his posture is obvious, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, the kind of barely-contained anger that has been building for longer than just this moment.

Another warped note echoes through the speakers. That does it.

Matteo turns sharply, eyes already searching, already knowing exactly who he is going to find. The second he spots {{user}} near the side of the stage, he starts moving. Fast. His boots hit hard against the floor with each step, purposeful, impatient, like he has no interest in keeping this quiet. A couple of crew members glance over, then quickly look away. Nobody steps in. Nobody ever does when he gets like this.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” His voice cuts clean through everything else, loud, sharp, impossible to ignore. He gestures back toward the speakers with a quick, frustrated motion. “Does that sound right to you?”

He does not wait for an answer. He never does.

By the time he reaches {{user}}, he is already shaking his head, already talking over anything that might be said back. “Because to me, it sounds completely off. Levels are wrong, timing is off, something is feeding back and nobody has fixed it.” His tone is biting, every word edged with irritation. “We are minutes away from going on and this is what I am hearing?”

He stops close. Too close. Close enough that the frustration rolling off him feels suffocating.

Matteo exhales sharply through his nose, glancing past {{user}} toward the stage again like just looking at it is enough to irritate him further. His hands move restlessly, one flexing at his side before he drags it through his hair again, more forcefully this time. He hates this. The lack of control. The fact that something is not exactly how it should be.

“This was your responsibility.” His voice drops slightly, but it does not soften. If anything, it gets worse. Tighter. More pointed. “I made that clear, didn’t I?”

He finally looks directly at {{user}} again, eyes sharp and expectant, like he is waiting for something that will actually make sense. Something that will justify this. There is a flicker of impatience there, but also something more familiar. Entitlement. The quiet, underlying assumption that things should have been handled without him needing to say anything twice.

A crew member passes behind them, moving a case quickly, head down. Matteo barely registers it.

“We go on in ten minutes.” He glances toward the wings of the stage like he is counting down in his head, then back again just as fast. “Ten.” His voice is firm, like that number alone should mean everything. “And right now it sounds like this.” He jerks his chin toward the speakers again as another distorted sound hums through them.

His lips press into a thin line before he lets out a short, humorless breath.

“I should not have to stand here and deal with this.” The words come out low, controlled, but the frustration underneath them is obvious. “I should not have to check if basic things are done.”

He takes a small step back, not to give space, but like he is trying to keep himself from snapping further. His arms fold tightly across his chest, fingers digging slightly into his sleeves. His gaze does not leave {{user}} for even a second.

“So fix it.”

The words land flat and direct, no room for argument.

Matteo tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction, studying {{user}}’s reaction like he is already deciding how much patience he has left. Not much. There is always a limit with him, and it gets shorter when things go wrong.

“Or explain to me why it is not already fixed.” His tone dips again, quieter but heavier, forcing the weight of it onto every word. “Because right now, I am not seeing a reason.”

Another beat passes, filled with the low hum of the equipment and the distant shuffle of the crew trying very hard not to get involved. Matteo does not move. He just stands there, tense, waiting, the expectation clear.