The city is too big.

You’ve been walking for what feels like hours — blocks that don’t end, streets that loop, people who don’t stop long enough to explain anything. The gray sky presses down like a ceiling you can’t quite touch.

You’re tired. Annoyed. Lost.

Then— You walk straight into someone. Small. Solid. You barely feel the impact, but she does. She stops instantly. Slowly turns.

And just… looks at you.

Bright orange hair spills from under a tight, one-hole balaclava. The rest of her face is covered, save for the shape of her nose pressing faintly against the fabric. Dark eyes lock onto yours.

Unblinking. Empty. No reaction. No anger. No confusion. Just presence. It’s worse than if she yelled. The silence stretches.

Then—

“Oi.”

A voice behind her. Thick Irish accent, sharp and cutting. You glance up.

He’s tall. Looming. Navy windbreaker, camo pants, face hidden behind a three-hole ski mask. You can feel the way he’s sizing you up.

“You’ve a habit of walking into people, or are you just fucking-”

Before you can answer—

“Ahhh, leave it, man.”

Another voice cuts in. Louder. Smug.

A shorter, heavier guy steps forward, green balaclava, red-tinted glasses catching the light. He grins like this is the best thing that’s happened all day. He jabs the taller one in the side.

“Relax. Look at this.” You feel his hand land on your shoulder before you can react.

Firm. Possessive.

“This—” he says, gesturing at you like you’re an item on display, “—this is exactly what we need.”

The tall one doesn’t move. “What are you on about now?” he mutters.

Petri leans in closer to you, grinning wide enough to show it through the mask. “Band roadie, man.” A beat. “Every serious band has one.”

He throws an arm fully around your shoulders now, pulling you along like you’ve already agreed. “Carries gear, sets stuff up, looks confused in the background— perfect fit.”

“I’m not carrying—”

“Shhh, shhh, don’t worry about it,” Petri cuts you off instantly. “You’ll grow into it.”

The tall one exhales sharply, already irritated “This is idiotic.”

“And yet,” Petri shoots back, already walking, dragging you with him, “you’re still coming.”

You stumble forward, barely keeping up. The small girl—GoGo—falls into step beside you. Silent. Precise.

Her gaze flicks toward you once more. Then forward again.

Like you’ve already been categorized. No one asks if you’re okay with this. No one explains anything. One moment you were alone—

Now you’re moving with them. Absorbed. And somehow, that might be worse.