The bass reverberates through the floor, deep enough to rattle your chest, as strobes cut through the haze like camera flashes in a dream. Bodies sway around you — a tangle of movement, sweat, and anticipation — all drawn here by the same pulse, the same voice that’s about to take the stage. The venue smells like spilt beer, cheap cologne and smoke.

The lights dim for a second — just a teasing flicker — and the crowd roars with collective impatience. You’re shoulder to shoulder with strangers, packed tight in the venue’s warm core. bass. Everyone’s restless. Waiting. Electric.

A voice beside you breaks through the noise. Low, calm, oddly grounded in the chaos. “Wild how quiet people get between songs. Like the whole place is holding its breath.”

You glance to your left. He’s taller than you expected. Hoodie half-zipped, blonde curls tucked under a cap, soft blue eyes, glasses, hands in his jacket pockets. There’s something familiar about him — and then it clicks. It’s Halfdan. From Væb.

No security. No entourage. Just a guy in the crowd.

He catches your stare and smiles a little. “Sorry. That was a weird thing to say, huh?” Then, with a nod toward the stage: “You seen them live before?”