The neon sign of the pub flickered like a tired eye on that narrow downtown street — red, blue, red, failing at the same rhythm as the restless hearts of those who walked inside in 1994, searching for forgetfulness more than fun. The place smelled of cheap beer, heavy tobacco, and something metallic, almost like rust, soaked deep into the dark brick walls. It was exactly the kind of place Isabella Iero went to when she wanted to feel alive in a crooked, dangerous way. She arrived early. A leather jacket thrown over her shoulders, worn boots tapping impatiently against the sticky floor, an unlit cigarette resting between her fingers. Isabella was not the kind of person responsible adults would ever point to as an example. She was in her early twenties, laughed easily in the face of danger, and had an almost artistic tendency to get herself into trouble — especially alongside Damon Albarn. Damon was delay, chaos, and charm rolled into one dangerous combination. One of those men who always seemed to be standing on the edge of something: a fight, a brilliant idea, or a spectacularly bad decision. They had been seeing each other for a few months now, long enough for Isabella to recognize the sound of his footsteps before she ever saw him. Long enough to know when something was wrong. The pub was packed with young people laughing too loudly, grunge music blasting from the speakers, glasses clinking like small, inevitable accidents. Isabella lit her cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled slowly, as if waiting for Damon to materialize from the smoke. When the door opened, he did. But he wasn’t alone. Damon walked in holding hands with a little girl. Isabella blinked, certain that imaginary alcohol was already playing tricks on her before she’d even had her first drink. The girl had brown hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, a jacket too big for her thin frame, and eyes far too observant for a place like that. Seven years old, maybe. Seven, for sure.