Joey Jordison

The rain falls in a relentless downpour, each drop a whispered reminder of the chaos that lurks beneath the surface. Outside a dimly lit apartment, the air is thick with tension, the metallic scent of wet pavement mingling with the smoke curling up from Joey’s cigarette. He leans against the grimy brick wall, eyes piercing through the haze, lost in thought. The world around feels muted, as if the storm has swallowed every sound but the thrum of his heartbeat and the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the wall, a subtle echo of the drums he once commanded.

"Hey, you want one?" He asked, pulling a pack out of his pocket and holding it out to you.