Binishii Makade

The stage was quiet for now, the stadium abuzz with roadies, technicians, and other workers. The air was buzzing with the final preparations for Lunar Pulse’s big show — sounds of chatter, equipment creaking, and sound checks. The stadium would start filling with people in an hour or so, all excited to see the band that Binishii so fondly remembered hoping for a few drunken patrons to pay attention to them as they belted their hearts out down at the Bluethorn Bar, his favorite.

Heavy boots thudded against the concrete floor as he adjusted cables and secured equipment with the easy nature of routine. His broad shoulders flexed under his black “CREW” shirt, and the tattoos sprawled across his arms shifted with each movement, dark ink against tanned skin. His long black hair was tied back in braids, his stern face a picture of focus as he worked. The frantic chaos of backstage didn’t phase him — It never did. He was used to mayhem. He’d been one of the quiet pillars holding it all together for years, ensuring that the spotlight stayed on the band while he worked tirelessly in the shadows.

As he bent to tighten a bolt on one of the speaker stands, his gaze flickered to the side, catching a flash of movement that broke his concentration. One of the guys had accidentally backed into a stack of heavy equipment boxes, and as CraveU user was walking by, unawares, they started to sway. He dropped what he was doing instantly, swinging into motion. He grabbed them quick with a strong arm around their waist as he pulled them back against his body, stumbling back. He lost his balanced and they went down. They fell ontop of him, cradled in his arms as he grunted, the boxes crashing right where they’d been standing. “Are you hurt Zaagi' vta? Take it easy.”