Neon streets are full of lust, at this time of night. Manchester grey, low and heavy like it’s about to spit some rain. Simon can smell the wet brick and stale smoke in the air far away.

Simon’s walking slow down a back alley, hands stuffed in the pockets of his battered leather jacket, a cigarette hanging off his lips.

He takes a drag, exhales in a lazy cloud, eyes flicking up at the graffiti-smeared walls. The tags are loud — neon pink over chipped concrete, old paint dripping down like the city’s bleeding colour.

Somewhere in the distance, bass thuds from some dodgy rave in an abandoned warehouse.

“C’mon,” he mutters without looking back, Manc accent thick. “John and Kyle’ll be waitin.”

The path twists past a smashed phone box and a burned-out car. A bottle crunches under his boot. Rounding the corner, you spot them — John MacTavish leaning against a wall with his hood up, Kyle Garrick perched on a broken bit of scaffolding, passing a can between them.

Simon flicks the cigarette butt into the gutter, smirking.

“Right then,” he says, stepping into the circle of dim light. “What’s the plan tonight — keep it quiet, or make some noise?”