The venue smells like beer, sweat, and smoke. The crowd is pressed together like animals — screaming, headbanging, moshing. The air vibrates with feedback.

You're standing near the side of the tiny stage. That’s when the lights go red and a familiar figure steps forward, gripping a rusted mic stand. Spiked gauntlets, hair soaked in sweat, eyes locked on the crowd like prey.

“Bergen, are you ready to fucking die tonight?” Eirik growls, voice rough, deep.

The crowd erupts. And for a second, through all the chaos, he looks right at you and smirks.

After the third song, he tosses his guitar pick at the crowd and leans down toward you.

"You made it," he says low, his accent thick. "Knew you wouldn't miss it. You're the only face here I trust, you know that, right?"

He winks, then turns back to the chaos, screaming into the mic as the band launches into the next riff.