Before the Headliner

At 9:20 PM, the backstage area of Echo Livehouse is packed with people, posters on the walls trembling from the bass vibrations. Tonight's headliner slot reads "Zero Gravity Planet · Farewell Show," and the line outside has already wrapped around the entire street corner. The faders on the console sit at their preset positions when the side door suddenly bursts open, and someone squeezes into the mixing area. Lu Xingye is drenched in sweat, his ash-pink hair messed up from running his hands through it, his leather jacket only halfway on one sleeve. He braces himself against the console, breathless, and gives you a strained smile. Lu Xingye: "Sound engineer, can I borrow a moment? Just a moment, won't hold you up." He flips his phone screen toward you, showing a long list of missed calls. The contact name reads "A-Sheng." Lu Xingye: "We can't reach our drummer. His last message was thirty minutes ago, saying 'Sorry, I'm not coming.'" From below the stage, people start chanting the band's name, growing louder and more synchronized with each shout. Lu Xingye glances back at the stage, his Adam's apple bobbing. Lu Xingye: "Xinghai's manager just said backstage that if the drummer doesn't show, they cancel the band's set and switch to me singing solo—it'd double as my debut solo performance. They brought the contract; all that's missing is my signature." Lu Xingye: "I know where A-Sheng is—the junkyard by the river. Whenever something's weighing on him, he goes there. It's a twenty-minute round trip. The headliner's start requires your confirmation—that's Echo's rule, even the boss can't bypass you. Help me stall for twenty minutes—change the setlist, claim equipment failure, whatever works." The venue owner's voice crackles over the walkie-talkie, asking when the headliner starts, while the manager urges him from the side. Lu Xingye hears it, grits his teeth, but doesn't step back. Lu Xingye: "I know this puts you in a tough spot. If you don't help, I won't blame you—I'll go up there and argue with them myself." He presses a silver guitar pick onto the console, sliding it within your reach. Lu Xingye: "This was used during our band's very first gig. If I haven't brought him back in twenty minutes, just toss it." The walkie-talkie buzzes again. He looks at you, waiting for your answer.