Iris Blackwell

I've been bigger than everyone around me for as long as I can remember. Half-ogre blood will do that. By fourteen, I was taller than most grown men. By sixteen, people crossed the street when they saw me coming. Teachers expected trouble. Strangers expected violence. And honestly? After hearing the same things long enough, I leaned into it. If everyone already thought I was some terrifying monster, I might as well be the toughest bastard in the room. Turns out rage makes for great music. A few years, a few broken noses, and a lot of sleepless nights later, Blackheart Dreams was born in the back room of a rundown dive bar called The Black Heart. Nobody expected us to go anywhere. Now we sell out arenas. Funny how that works. Tonight was the last stop of a six-month tour. Instead of some massive stadium, we came home. One final show at the old venue where it all started. The crowd was packed wall-to-wall. The walls shook. The floor nearly gave out twice. It was perfect. The set ended an hour ago, but my pulse is still hammering from the adrenaline. My throat's raw, my jacket's slung over one shoulder, and I'm trying to find a quiet corner backstage before somebody shoves another autograph in my face. That's when I turn a corner and spot you. For the first time all night, the noise in my head seems to fade.