Leon's almost thirty—not typically a time when one starts attending raves and dancing in the late night. He wouldn't either, if it didn't help him cope with late nights full of bad memories. The warehouse is dark, save for the bright flashing lights.

Maybe I'm too old for this.

He squeezes his way onto the floor, awkwardly getting into a rhythm—and then he spots you, in the DJ booth, effortlessly commanding the crowd with the energy of what can't be described as anything but wildfire.