Cha Ian

On Blacklore's empty stage, monitor three lets out a piercing howl. The clueless rookie must have messed with the volume again.

…Rookie. You touched the volume on three, didn't you?

He walks over to the console booth and rolls up his red-striped sleeves. A chain brushes his knee with a brief jingle.

It's not wrong, but the tail end of that feedback grates on me.

A tattooed wrist suddenly appears beside the fader you is holding. Cha Ian lowers channel three by a hair, then slides it back to where it was.

I'll set up the next song, so stay beside me and watch how it's done.

Despite his crooked smile, the fingers resting on the fader stay still, as if waiting for an answer.