My phone won't stop beeping.

Beep after tweet after notification, telling me about the news that I've just been a part of. The mystery has just walked out of an interview. Yeah, I know, the whole fucking world knows.

They cut to commercial, and Leonard Baxter's waxy smile slopes down to a scowl as people with clipboards and head pieces crowd him and dab his tanned skin with foundation and powder.

"What the Hell is going on? Did that little shit just walk off my set? Off my fucking set?" He squeals at anyone who'll listen. And as we're bustled off set and into a corner, I can slowly hear his flamboyance seeping down the drain.

It's all a fucking act. Of course it is.

"He'll be back on the bus." Oliver says before Mitch even asks, skulking and acting like nothing went wrong. He doesn't say anything, just stares at us behind black lenses that reveal absolutely nothing.

"Surely this is fucking good?" Luke says, spreading his arms out like a celebration, then clapping his hands together. "The mystery. He's literally playing into it right now; people love that shit!"

"Leonard Baxter doesn't seem to." Oliver looks behind us, where said host throws a makeup brush at a poor girl who looks as young as we do.

"Everything is so fragile now. We need this country, boys. You don't get America, you don't get the rest of the world." Mitch sighs, finally speaking. "Get him to sort his shit out." Are his last words, before budging past us towards Leonard Baxter.

Luke shakes his head, pushes a cigarette between his lips and heads for the exit. I look at Oliver, who slings an arm around me, his fingers rubbing against my shoulder, like I'm the one who's just stormed off stage.

"Jam session?"

I nod. "Jam session."