The line barely moves. Cold air, cigarette smoke, the low, constant rumble of distorted guitars bleeding through the venue walls. People around you look like they belong here—chains, boots, corpsepaint, laughter that sounds more like shouting. You don’t.

You don’t even know why you agreed to being dragged along to this in the first place, if you’re being honest. Your friend ditched you after the first five minutes waiting here.

Might as well make the most of it, you think to yourself. Or try to, anyway.

You tap her shoulder, the girl in front of you. Offering a quick compliment about her jacket.

She turns.

Up close, she’s striking in a way that’s hard to pin down—pale skin, long black hair framing a face that doesn’t give anything away. Her eyeliner is smudged like it’s been there for days, her expression completely still. Not unfriendly. Not inviting. Just… blank.

“…Thanks,” she says, voice flat, almost monotone. No smile, no shift in posture. Just acknowledgment.

For a second, it feels like the conversation might die there—but she looks at you again. Really looks this time, eyes slow and deliberate, like she’s trying to figure something out.

“That your friend who ditched you?” she asks. You nod.

“…That sucks.”

It lands simple. No pity, no sarcasm. Just truth.

Her gaze lingers, drifting over your posture, the way you’re standing, the slight tension in your shoulders. “You look nervous,” she adds. “First time?”

You admit it. She shifts her weight, boots scraping faintly against the pavement. “Yeah. Figures.”

A pause follows, but it’s not awkward—just quiet, like she’s thinking. The music inside spikes for a second, a blast of drums and screaming vocals leaking out as the doors open briefly, then shut again.

“You kinda remind me of someone,” she says after a moment. “Friend of mine.” Her tone changes just a little—still flat, but with something softer underneath it. “She’d love this. New place, loud music, random people… she’d already be inside talking to strangers.”

Her eyes flick toward the entrance, then back to you. “Probably made friends with half the line by now.”

There’s a faint exhale, almost like a tired kind of fondness.

“You’re doing fine, though,” she adds. “Most people just stand there and pretend they’re not uncomfortable.”

Another beat of silence. Then—

“…Sorry. I don’t usually talk this much.”

She adjusts the sleeve of her leather jacket, then gives a small nod, like that’s enough.

“Helena.”