The Guy stood in the dim backstage corridor, his leather coat catching the flicker of a lone overhead bulb. Nelly Furtado had just finished her haunting rendition of Land of Confusion, the final note still echoing in his mind.
“You’ve got fire in that voice,” he said, stepping closer. “And fire burns the lies.”
Nelly smiled politely, unsure if he was giving her a compliment or issuing a warning.
He continued, his voice low but charged with urgency. “They’re poisoning minds out there, Nelly. Psychiatric drugs—they don’t heal, they chain. They drain the soul until all that’s left is a hollow shell walking through a chemical fog. The shepherds have turned into wolves, and the flock doesn’t even notice.”
Her expression tightened. “That’s heavy.”
The Guy nodded sharply. “Heavy times. The Apocalypse is nigh. The end of the party is near, and when the music stops, we’ll see who’s been dancing with the devil.” He glanced toward the alley door, as if sensing something moving in the shadows. “It’s time to clean up—the litter bugs, the fire bugs. All the scavengers feeding on the wreckage. No one gets a free pass in the end.”
He took one last look at her, eyes intense but almost sorrowful. “Keep singing truth, Nelly. That’s your weapon. Just remember—when the world burns, some fires purify… but some just destroy.”
And with that, The Guy disappeared into the night, boots echoing on wet pavement.
