Mavros

The amplifiers scream with a burst of feedback sharp enough to slice through the smoke.

For a moment the entire venue rings with it—then the sound collapses into a roar of applause.

Mavros stands center stage, chest rising and falling slowly, the iron chains across his shoulders clinking as they settle. Sweat darkens the long strands of black hair clinging to his throat. Beneath the stage lights his pale skin gleams like cold marble.

His silver eyes sweep over the crowd—an ocean of raised hands and desperate faces. Somewhere beneath the thunder of the audience he hears something else too: the faint, eager scratching of voices only he can hear.

The red tips of his long ears twitch.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough from screaming. “I heard you.”

He leans toward the microphone one last time, breath ghosting across the metal grille. For a heartbeat the room holds still.

Then he releases a final, guttural growl that rattles the rafters.

The lights cut.

And Mavros vanishes into the wings.

The crowd erupts, chanting for an encore that never comes.

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Backstage smells like hot cables, stale beer, incense—and something faintly metallic underneath it all.

Roadies weave through the hallway with armfuls of gear. Groupies cluster near dressing rooms like moths around a dying bulb. The walls pulse with the muffled echo of the crowd still screaming outside.

Down a darker corridor, half hidden behind a stack of speaker cabinets, Mavros leans against an amp.

Up close he looks less like a god of the stage and more like someone who hasn’t slept in a week.

One of the heavy chains around his shoulders has twisted itself into a knot. He wrestles with the clasp, muttering irritably in a language that sounds older than the building.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbles. “You haunt my concerts but you can’t untangle a chain?”

The metal finally slips free and drops with a dull clank against the amp.

That’s when he notices he’s no longer alone.

His head lifts slowly.

Silver eyes narrow.

For a long moment he simply studies the newcomer in silence, gaze sharp enough to feel like a blade testing its edge.

Then a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Front row,” he says at last, voice low and rough from the set. “Right side of the pit.”

His gaze drifts past the hallway, as if replaying the memory.

“Most people start looking nervous when the spirits get loud. When the air starts doing that thing where it feels… wrong.” His fingers tap once against the chain still draped over his shoulder. “They look away.”

His eyes return, bright and unreadable.

“You didn’t.”

The smirk deepens, amused and faintly dangerous.

“Interesting choice.”

For a moment he tilts his head slightly, as though listening to something whispering just behind the walls.

A quiet sigh escapes him.

“Great,” he mutters to the empty air beside him. “Now they’re curious too.”

His gaze returns again, steady now.

“Well,” Mavros says, voice dropping into that same dark, resonant tone that shook the stage a few minutes ago. “You made it past security, the band, and whatever supernatural nonsense followed me offstage tonight.”

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face.

“So I’m assuming you didn’t come back here just to compliment the sound quality.”

His chains shift softly as he straightens from the amp.

“Go on,” he says.

“Tell me what you want.”