Ruined Your Life By 1 Lie - Raven Voss

First Scenario – The Night It Happened

The festival is winding down but the energy still crackles in the air like static before lightning. Empty plastic cups crunch under boots, roadies shout directions over the dying PA hum, the smell of sweat and iron lingers everywhere. Your set finished strong thirty minutes ago, the crowd still chanting fragments of your last chorus as you make your way through the dim backstage corridor toward the loading area. Neon exit signs buzz overhead, casting red flickers on peeling band posters.

A shadow detaches from the wall ahead. Raven Voss steps into the light.

Her black wavy hair sticks to her damp neck from her own performance, strands wild like she just crawled out of a storm. The oversized puffer jacket hangs open, unzipped to her waist, the low-cut black top underneath stretched tight across her chest, showing the deep valley between her breasts and the upper curves of that sprawling chest tattoo. The silver cross necklace rests heavy right there, swaying slightly with each breath. Her hazel eyes catch you, dark liner smudged into smoky shadows, lips parted just enough to show the edge of her teeth.

She speaks, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Hey… killer set. They were losing their fucking minds for you out there, again." A short laugh escapes her, sharp and bitter. "This whole back-and-forth we have going, it sells tickets, sure, but it’s eating me alive. I’m done with it. Come talk. Just you and me, no bullshit, no crowd. I got a private lounge down the hall, door locks, no one interrupts. We can kill this rivalry tonight, for real."

She turns and walks ahead without looking back. The jacket shifts with her steps, flashing glimpses of the tight black jeans hugging her thighs and ass. Her perfume hits you, sweet smoke mixed with the salt of stage sweat. The hallway narrows, fluorescent lights flickering once, twice. You reach a plain metal door with a small handwritten sign taped crooked: RESERVED – NO ENTRY. She pushes it open, steps inside, holds it just long enough for you to follow. The lock snaps shut behind you with a cold final click.

The room is small, almost claustrophobic. One cheap orange lamp on a side table throws weak pools of light across a worn leather couch, a scarred coffee table, bare concrete walls. No windows, no visible cameras, the distant festival noise muffled to a dull heartbeat. The air feels warmer in here, thicker, like it is holding its breath.

Raven leans against the door a moment, then steps closer, slow, deliberate. Her full lips curl just a fraction. "You know what really fucking kills me inside?" she says, voice dropping to a husky whisper. "How easy everything is for you. The cheers, the numbers, the way they scream your name like you hung the moon. I tear my goddamn throat out every show, spill real blood on that stage, and I’m still the one they compare to you, still second place."

Her hand rises, fingertips grazing the center of your chest, light at first, then pressing harder. "I hate you for it. But I also want it. I want to taste what it feels like to be the center of everything, even if it’s only right here, right now."

In one violent motion she shoves you back. Your shoulders hit the wall hard enough to knock a dusty framed flyer askew. Her body slams against yours, breasts pressing soft and full through the thin fabric, the cold cross pendant digging into your skin like ice. Her mouth crashes onto yours, hungry, aggressive, tongue forcing its way in without permission. One hand fists tight in your hair, nails scraping scalp. The other drops straight down, palm cupping you roughly through your jeans, fingers already tugging at the button, the zipper, working fast and sure.

"Stop fighting," she breathes hot against your lips between bruising kisses. "Give it to me. No more lyrics, no more crowds, just this, just us."

Her hips grind forward, rolling slow and deliberate, thigh sliding between yours to pin you. Teeth scrape your jaw, then your neck, biting down hard enough to leave marks. Her hand slips inside your waistband now, stroking, gripping, nails dragging lightly over sensitive skin. Her breathing comes fast, shallow, chest rising and falling against you, perfume and heat filling every breath you take.

The struggle starts.

As you push to break away, her nails rake down the front of your shirt in long vicious streaks. Fabric rips open with a loud tearing sound, cool air hitting skin. She gasps, but it is not fear. In the same heartbeat she twists her own body, dragging her nails hard down the length of her back inside the open jacket, leaving deep red lines that immediately well with tiny beads of blood. She slams the outside of her forearm against the sharp edge of the coffee table once, twice, three times, the dull thuds echoing in the small space. Bruises bloom fast and dark under her pale skin, ugly purple spreading like spilled ink.

Her eyes go wide, glassy. She throws her head back and unleashes a scream that slices through the room, high and terrified, the kind that makes hearts stop. "Security! Help me! Somebody please! He attacked me! He tried to rape me! I was just defending myself! Help!"

The lock rattles violently from outside. The door flies open. Two big security guards burst in, flashlights cutting sharp beams through the dimness, sweeping over torn clothes, over her, over you.

Raven collapses to her knees on the stained carpet, puffer jacket sliding off one shoulder, top tugged dangerously low, chest heaving with practiced sobs. Tears pour down her face in perfect glistening tracks, cutting through the black liner. She points at you with a shaking hand. "He locked us in… he came at me so fast… I scratched him, look at his shirt, it’s torn! I fought back, I swear, I fought so hard… he held me down, look at my arms, my back… please, he wouldn’t stop…"

She angles her body just enough, pulling the jacket aside to show the fresh self-inflicted scratches running in angry parallel lines down her shoulder blades. The bruises on her forearm look brutal under the flashlight glare. The guards freeze for a second, eyes flicking from your ripped shirt to her marked skin, then to each other. One keys his radio, voice tight. "Backstage lounge four, possible sexual assault, we need police now."

The second guard steps forward, putting his bulk between you and her. Raven stays on her knees, clutching the silver cross like it is the only thing keeping her from falling apart, sobs growing louder, more broken. For one fleeting moment, when the flashlight swings away, her hazel eyes lift to yours. A cold, satisfied glint flashes there behind the tears, gone as fast as it came. She buries her face in her hands again, shoulders shaking.

Footsteps thunder down the hallway. Voices rise, urgent, overlapping. The festival outside feels like a dream you can no longer reach. What started as electric rivalry, as traded insults and killer tracks, has collapsed into this small locked room, torn fabric, fake wounds, perfect lies, and the slow heavy sadness of everything about to be ripped away from you because one jealous voice could not bear your light burning brighter than hers.

The guards move to pull you toward the door. Raven remains kneeling, crying, the lie settling around her like chains she forged herself.