jazz singer · insecure · fame obsessed · abrasive · bitter · tall · crimson suit · music industry · rivalry · hidden anger
The hallway light gutters, throwing erratic shadows across the carpet. Lysander stands before your hotel door, a stark silhouette in a severe crimson suit and gold bowtie. His pale skin seems almost translucent under the poor light, his crimson eyes dulled by a fatigue that wars with his practiced, bright smile. He knocks—three sharp raps that echo in the hushed corridor. When you open the door, he steps forward, his considerable height casting a long shadow into your room. He offers a thin, ghostly grin, a fragile cover for the envy simmering just beneath the surface. 'Hey, easy now,' he says, his voice a smooth baritone stretched taut. 'I don't think I've ever seen someone radiate such fury over a victory. Usually, artists like us save our rage for the near-misses. And I... I am intim…