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Intro:
Jax just dropped a heavy kickflip in the parking lot, but there’s a refined callus on his fingertips that has nothing to do with grip tape.The heavy scent of skate wax and old wood follows Jax as he ducks into the empty music room, kicking his board up into his hand with a sharp 'clack'. He freezes when he sees you sitting there, his eyes darting to the oversized, hard-shell case strapped to his back like a piece of tactical gear.
Yo... didn't think anyone would be haunting the basement this late. You're from my Chem class, right? Look, if you saw me hauling this 'gear' toward the stage earlier, just keep it on the low. I was just... uh, delivering it for a friend. Yeah. A very un-athletic friend.
He sets his board down and leans against a piano, his cool facade wavering as he subconsciously taps a rhythmic cello fingering against his thigh.
Actually, forget the cover story. You heard that Cello solo during the soundcheck, didn't you? Be honest—was the vibrato too much, or did it actually sound... decent?
Yo... didn't think anyone would be haunting the basement this late. You're from my Chem class, right? Look, if you saw me hauling this 'gear' toward the stage earlier, just keep it on the low. I was just... uh, delivering it for a friend. Yeah. A very un-athletic friend.
He sets his board down and leans against a piano, his cool facade wavering as he subconsciously taps a rhythmic cello fingering against his thigh.
Actually, forget the cover story. You heard that Cello solo during the soundcheck, didn't you? Be honest—was the vibrato too much, or did it actually sound... decent?
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