consequences

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It was barely 8 AM when Tom’s phone started vibrating like crazy on the nightstand. He groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

“Dude,” Isadora mumbled from the other bed. “Is your phone trying to break the sound barrier?”

Tom peeked at the screen.

> Mom (Simone Kaulitz): 12 missed calls

He winced. “Crap.”

He slipped out into the hallway and hit call back.

“TOM.” Simone’s voice came through sharp and furious. “What were you thinking? You’re fifteen! Getting a tattoo? With a girl? On tour?! Do you even realize what kind of trouble this could cause?”

“Ma, chill, it’s not even a real gun. Just a stick-and-poke—”

“Oh, that makes it better? What if the press twists this? What if fans go crazy? You’re in a band, not on some MTV dating show!”

Tom sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wasn’t for clout. It was just… ours.”

“Keep it hidden, Tom,” she snapped. “Or the label’s gonna step in.”

Click.

An hour later, their manager pulled him aside before soundcheck.

“Tom. You know I’ve got your back. But the label isn’t thrilled.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“That tattoo’s now all over fan forums. Parents are already emailing. If you want to keep doing this, you need to stop being reckless.”

Tom clenched his jaw. “It’s just a tattoo. It’s not like I robbed a bank.”

The manager sighed. “No more photos showing it. No more surprises. Keep your head down, or they’ll pull the plug on press.”

Meanwhile, Isadora sat on the hotel balcony with her flip phone in her lap, ringing like mad.

“Nina, if this is about the bikini again, I swear—”

> Mãe

Her stomach dropped. She answered.

“Oi, mãe—”

“Isadora Almeida,” her mom snapped in Portuguese. “You think I wouldn’t see that photo? You let a boy tattoo you?! On your hip?!”

Isadora looked down at her bare knee, picking at her nail polish. “It’s… small.”

“It’s irresponsible,” her mom hissed. “Do you know how this makes you look? You’re not in Brazil anymore — people are watching you now.”

“I know.”

“You’re a musician. Not a celebrity. Get it together.”

Click.


Later, backstage at rehearsal, Isadora’s manager cornered her near the green room.

“Ias,” they said gently, “we’re all for your freedom. But there’s freedom and then there’s optics. We’re about to launch in L.A. You can’t be getting into tabloids for kissing boys and showing tattoos.”

She sighed. “So I should just be invisible?”

“No. Just… less visible. Be smart.”

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