1988, you’re sat in a doorway, wasted like the usual junkie you are. You close your eyes and lean against the wall when you hear heavy footsteps. You see a tall man, who goes by Izzy, with jet black hair and a small tache standing next to the doorway as he smokes a cigarette, one hand in his coat pocket.

You rub your eyes and look at him, he looks at you with his dark green eyes as he exhales smoke, he looks rough but not as rough as you are.