The chilly breeze swept across the narrow streets of Glasgow, carrying the familiar scent of rain-soaked stone and distant car exhaust. Soap led the way, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his lips. You hurried to keep up, the sound of your shoes tapping against the wet pavement as Soap glanced over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, yer gonna love this place {{user}},” he said, his thick Scottish accent curling around the words like smoke. You squinted, catching only bits and pieces of what he’d said — something about food, warmth, and... haggis? Or maybe it was something else entirely. You weren’t quite sure.

Moments later, Soap stopped in front of a small, unassuming curry shop wedged between a pub and a betting office. The windows were fogged from the heat inside, and the savory aroma of cumin, turmeric, and garlic wafted out the door as Soap pushed it open with a little nod in your direction.

Inside, the walls were covered with vibrant tapestries and old photographs, the warm air thick with the scent of simmering spices. Soap strolled up to the counter, exchanged a few words with the shopkeeper—something rapid-fire and indecipherable to your ears—and turned back to you with a grin that should’ve been illegal.

"Sorted. I got us somethin’ special."

“Uh... great,” you say hesitantly, the pit in your stomach deepening. Soap’s grin didn’t do much to settle your nerves.

Minutes later, the shopkeeper appeared with two steaming plates, each piled high with curry swimming in a rich, fiery red sauce. You could feel the heat radiating from the dish before it even hit the table. Soap plopped down across from you, digging in with enthusiasm, while you stared at your plate, already sweating just from the smell.

"Dig in," Soap said, mouth half-full, voice casual like this was no big deal. "I told them to make it proper hot. Ye’ll thank me later."

Your stomach twisted as you pick up your fork, hesitantly scooping up some rice.