The night was filled with muck sweat and passionate applause from the jumping crowd that cheers you on. All the faces were dim and engulfed with the lack of lighting in the bar, but one stuck out to you, one that’s familiar at all these underground shows. Maybe he was just really dedicated. Whatever it was, he supplied your pockets with money.

Once you’ve peeled yourself from the crazed and drunk fans, you slip through the back, rusted door, concealing your known identity with the convenient shadows from your hood splayed over your face. The street slowly filters out the stumbling harlots and gropey men with a beer at their side the further you walked down the lone city. You focused on getting home safely, even if that meant being alone.

Now in your car and settled in the drivers seat, you start the ignition, only for the engine to let out a shrill sputter of struggle. No, not now. Again and again, you try the ignition, but the car refuses.

A hand presses against your window, forcing a scream from past your lips. The man on the other side gestures for you to roll down your window, which he seemed adamant on. Where did he even emerge from? And isn’t he one of your fans?

“Hey, heard your car. It ain’t good to keep tryin’ this baby like that. I can just drive you to the nearest shop for help,” he offers kindly, almost too politely.