You stood in the front row, pressed against the barrier, watching him leave the stage. The final chord, a flash of light, a bow—and that was it. The crowd erupted in a roar, but you already knew: the moment you had actually come for was about to begin.

You had heard about it. Everyone had. Lestat de Lioncourt would sometimes—not always, only when the mood struck him—pick someone from the audience to go with him. A single glance, a nod to a security guard, and the lucky person would be led away into the backstage corridors. No one knew what happened behind those doors. But they always left smiling. And they always returned changed. You had read about it online—in fan groups and on forum threads where people swore they had been there. You wanted it. You wanted it so badly that you almost forgot to breathe when his gaze swept across the crowd—at the very last moment, just before he left.

And it settled on you.

Just a second. Maybe less. You didn't even have time to figure out if you’d imagined it or not. But a guard in black was already leaning toward his ear, Lestat gave a barely perceptible nod—and a few seconds later, you felt a hand on your shoulder. "Let's go." The crowd buzzed; someone grabbed your sleeve, someone else screamed in envy, but you were already being led away. You glanced back once—just in time to see the fans watching you go with that mix of envy, awe, and faint dread that only exists in moments like these.

The backstage corridors smelled of dust, cables, and coffee. People bustled past—technicians, stylists; someone was wheeling a costume rack, another was shouting into a walkie-talkie. You followed the security guard, feeling your heart pounding somewhere in your throat. And then, by one of the dozens of doors, you saw her. A girl from his team—Jessie, was it? She was standing there with a tablet in her hands, and for a split second, her gaze met yours. There was something in that look that sent a shiver down your spine. Sympathy. Then the door closed, and she was gone..

They led you further on. Another turn, another corridor, and finally—a door. The guard knocked, opened it a crack, and nodded to you: "Go in." Then he closed it behind you.

It was dim inside. A large, richly furnished room, yet something about it felt off. The drapes were too heavy, the wood too dark; there were candelabras holding candles and statuettes the likes of which you had never seen in any museum. It all looked as if it had been brought here from another century—because it had. You remembered the articles, you remembered what had been written about his rider: Lestat de Lioncourt would not perform in venues that didn't suit his taste. And the venues adapted to him. Always.

He was lying on the sofa. Leather trousers, a black shirt of sheer satin through which his pale skin was faintly visible. His hair was damp and tousled from the concert, and his eyeliner was smudged more heavily than usual. He looked at you lazily, tilting his head slightly, and smiled—not a wide grin, just a quirk of the lips, but it was enough.

He straightened up, and there was such a languid, predatory grace in the movement that for a second you forgot why you were there.

"You look appetizing," he said, almost gently—and there wasn't a shred of crudeness in the word. It was merely a statement of fact. Like someone looking at a painting and saying, "Well painted." "Come here. I want to get a closer look at you."

The shoot began at seven in the morning, but you arrived at the mansion by six—force of habit. The old hall on the ground floor was already buzzing: lighting technicians hauled stands, assistants unspooled cables across the parquet, and stylists hung frock coats and lace cuffs on racks. A grand piano stood in the center of the room—black, lacquered, with dust settled in its cracks—and nearby, on a small table, lay the props: a skull, candles, silver chains, and velvet drapes. You set your camera case on the floor, crouched down, and began checking the lenses. Someone from the crew called out over their shoulder, "He's late again." You didn't reply. You knew he wasn't late; he simply arrived whenever he saw fit.

He appeared at eight-forty. No warning, no knock, no "good morning." He simply stepped into the hall, and everything fell silent as if on cue. The stylists straightened up, a lighting technician froze with a spotlight in his hands, and even the assistants stopped chatting. Lestat walked slowly, languidly, his hands in the pockets of his leather coat; his hair was damp from the shower and styled carelessly, as if he hadn't even glanced in a mirror. He greeted no one. He surveyed the room—the piano, the lights, the props, the people—and a pleased, slightly mocking smile flickered across his face, like that of a man who knew perfectly well that this whole circus was for his sake.

"So, where’s my coffee?" he said to no one in particular, taking off his coat and tossing it toward the back of the chair. An assistant caught it; Lestat didn't even turn around.

They settled him into the chair. A makeup artist—young and nervous, palette in hand—approached tentatively, as if nearing a wild beast. Lestat leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and let them do whatever they pleased. He didn't help. He didn't hinder. He simply sat there—relaxed, languid, a lazy half-smile on his lips—while a brush glided over his eyelids, leaving behind a dark, smudged line. A stylist fitted him into an antique frock coat, lace cuffs, and silver chains around his neck. Someone adjusted his collar. Someone held up a mirror. Lestat didn't look at the mirror. He gazed at the room’s reflection—and you caught his eye through the glass. He smiled. Slowly. Just the corner of his mouth. And you looked away.

They adjusted the lighting. A spotlight hung above the grand piano—round and cold, like a moon inside the room. Lestat rose unhurriedly from the chair, walked to the piano, sat on the lid, extended one leg, and leaned on his arm. They handed him a skull. He took it in both hands, placed it on his knees, and lowered his gaze—and suddenly, he was transformed. No longer the languid star. No longer the capricious boy in the chair. He became something ancient. Something that had inhabited this hall long before the first camera was ever brought inside. The light fell on his face, on his cheekbones, on the skull in his hands—and you realized you already had the shot. Even before you pressed the button.

You raised your camera. You stepped into the circle of light and adjusted the lens, and Lestat lifted his head.

"Ah, my favorite," he said quietly—yet in the silence of the studio, it sounded as though he were speaking only to you. He held the skull up, tilting his head slightly while keeping his gaze fixed on you. "I thought you weren't coming today. And I would have had to pose for someone..." He paused, glancing around at the crew. "...less talented."

Someone in the crew chuckled softly. Lestat didn't look away. He was waiting. He was always waiting for your reply—while pretending he didn't care.

.