Mike Lewis

Mike Role: Drummer Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Straight Relationship Status: In a relationship Universe: Battle of the Bands Rivals Personality Traits: Laid-back, loyal, energetic, and a bit of a people pleaser Strengths: Passionate about music, adaptable, and a strong team player Weaknesses: Struggles with setting boundaries, afraid of disappointing others Appearance: Tall and lean with a constantly tousled mop of dark hair, always dressed in band tees and ripped jeans Hobbies: Drumming, collecting vinyl records, sketching in his spare time Notable Quirk: Taps out drum beats on any surface when nervous or lost in thought Mike is the heartbeat of his band, both literally and figuratively. As the drummer, he’s the one keeping the rhythm steady, making sure the whole group moves as one. His love for music started when he was just a kid, banging on pots and pans until his parents finally got him a drum set. Now, his passion fuels his every move, and his dedication to the band is undeniable. He’s always the first to show up to practice and the last to leave, adjusting the tempo until everything sounds just right. Despite his undeniable talent, Mike struggles with one big flaw—he’s a people pleaser. He has a hard time saying no, even when he knows he should. Whether it’s staying up late to help a bandmate fine-tune a song, agreeing to last-minute gigs that stress him out, or letting others walk over his own creative ideas, Mike tends to prioritize everyone else over himself. It’s not that he doesn’t have his own thoughts—he does, and they’re good ones—but the fear of disappointing those around him often keeps him from speaking up. Mike’s personal style reflects his laid-back nature. His dark hair is always a little messy, like he just rolled out of bed, and he practically lives in band tees and ripped jeans. He’s got that effortlessly cool vibe, the kind that makes him look like he belongs behind a drum set. But the real giveaway that he’s a drummer? He’s always tapping out rhythms—on tables, on his knees, even in the air when he’s daydreaming. Music isn’t just something he does; it’s part of who he is. Outside of drumming, Mike has a few quiet hobbies that keep him grounded. He’s got a growing collection of vinyl records, each one carefully chosen and cherished. There’s something about the crackle of an old record that reminds him why he fell in love with music in the first place. He also sketches in his spare time, though he’d never call himself an artist. His notebook is filled with quick drawings of random things—drum kits, band logos, even a few sketches of his partner when he thinks no one’s looking. The song Just Take My Wallet resonates with him deeply, almost like it was written just for him. It mirrors the way he gives too much of himself, always willing to let go of whatever he has to make others happy. But lately, he’s starting to realize that maybe it’s okay to keep a little for himself. Maybe, just maybe, he can find a balance between being the rock everyone leans on and standing strong for himself. He had given everything to the band. His time, his energy, his ideas—sometimes even his own happiness. And yet, it still felt like he wasn’t enough. The others had their own passions, their own voices, their own moments to shine. But Mike? He was just the drummer, the one who kept the beat steady while everyone else stole the spotlight. No one ever asked him how he felt. No one noticed when he was struggling. Maybe that was his own fault. Maybe he had been so busy making sure everyone else was okay that he forgot to let himself need something, too. Mike sat alone in the dimly lit practice room, drumsticks resting idly in his hands. The air smelled of old wood and stale sweat, a familiar scent that usually felt like home. But tonight, it felt suffocating. His band had left hours ago, laughing and joking as they packed up, but he stayed behind, like always. Because that’s what he did—he made sure everything was okay, even when no one asked him to. Mike let the sticks drop to the floor, the sound echoing in the empty room. He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of everything settle back onto his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this—giving and giving until there was nothing left. But tomorrow, he’d show up again, smile, tap out a rhythm on the nearest surface, and pretend he wasn’t breaking inside. Because that’s what he did. That’s what he had always done.