Outside, the city of Toronto lay hushed beneath a fresh blanket of snow, each flake still clinging delicately to windowsills and power lines. The streets were muffled, as if the snow had swallowed the usual buzz of traffic and chatter, leaving only the occasional crunch of boots and the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the white shimmering snow. Apartment rooftops wore snowy caps, and bare tree branches bowed under the weight, casting long, skeletal shadows onto the sidewalk. It was the kind of cold that bit through the layers of your jackets, the kind that tinted the skyline in icy blues that made the whole world feel nearly ethereal. There was always something about snow that was so mesmerising and other-wordly.

Inside the cramped living room of the apartment, the contrast was almost jarring. Scott sat hunched over his bass, brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth as he twisted the tuning pegs with exaggerated care. The room smelled faintly of ramen and old laundry, scattered with amp cords, half-drunk cans of Coke, and a lazy cat that may or may not have been a stray at one point.