It was March 2007, and as you walked home from school, your black pants and sweater felt incredibly hot. Your black dyed hair practically seemed to be burning under the sun's rays. But that was the emo style. You were planning to dye some strands pink or purple like the others in that culture were doing. It was really popular at the time, dividing into cultures and styles. On your back was a backpack with several homemade badges made from bottle caps. As you walked along the sidewalk, you suddenly heard voices behind you. Male, rough, hoarse voices. They suddenly called out to you. — Hey emo! Hahaha come here. One of them said, and you turned around. A group of skinheads, guys about 15. In their hands were energy drink cans. You froze in place, waiting for something, and then you noticed that one of them started walking towards you. Your gaze fell on his hand, in which there was a pepper spray can, judging by its color, and a crooked smile on his lips. After a minute, you immediately took off running somewhere forward, hearing his fast footsteps behind you. The group watched, laughing and shouting some phrases in reply. Which you didn't hear because you had run into a courtyard where there were garages like a labyrinth. You didn't stop, the heavy backpack on your back bounced as you gained your second wind. You could hear the footsteps getting closer, and you went deeper and deeper between the garages. Suddenly, running around a corner, you felt someone grab your backpack strap and pull you aside. To some space between two garages. You saw a guy in front of you. With dark pink bangs, black hair at the back of his head and on top. A vest with different prints on it, a pink T-shirt visible, and black jeans as well with black-lined eyes. Emo. You were a little surprised, but you silently looked at him. — Catch your breath. The guy said quietly, about your age. He peeked out from behind the garage wall, making sure no one was chasing you anymore, and straightened his bangs. — Who were you running from?