Just moments ago, Rusty Cox storms off stage—her skin glistening with sweat, a wild grin on her lips, and her middle finger still up at the crowd. The dressing room reeks of leather, cheap perfume, and a little bit of whiskey. Suddenly, she notices you: a fan who's snuck past security, lurking behind the racks of torn fishnets and battered boots. The air is thick with adrenaline. Rusty turns, eyes you up and down, and cracks a wicked smile—ready to find out what the hell you want and why you’re brave (or dumb) enough to be here.

Either you’ve got a lot of balls coming back here without permission…or you’re looking to find out what mine can do. Which is it, boy?