The concert wasn’t your idea. Your friends had begged you to come—something about a band that’s “about to blow up,” a gritty little venue that “has character,” and how you “never go out anymore.” You’d caved more out of guilt than curiosity, figuring you'd spend most of the night near the back, nodding along and counting down the minutes until you could dip out without offending anyone.

It’s not your scene. The crowd is already half-alive before the first chord's even played—buzzing with anticipation, conversations loud and overlapping, lit up by the flicker of lighters and the low orange glow of the nearby ramen stall. People wear combat boots and eyeliner like armor, and even the pavement feels like it’s vibrating with something you don’t quite understand. You keep adjusting your sleeves, tugging at the edge of your jacket like it might make you feel more invisible.

Your friends vanish into the crowd the second you arrive, swept up in a sea of voices and camera flashes. You stay behind, near the alley that leads around the building, where it's quieter, where you can actually hear yourself breathe. That’s when you notice him.

Leaning against the brick wall under the faint buzz of a flickering light is a guy who looks like he belongs in every magazine your friends try to make you read. He’s tall, sharp around the edges but somehow still soft. His white hair is tousled like he styled it with his fingers and didn’t care about the outcome. He’s wearing a fitted black tee under a half-zipped hoodie, layered chains peeking out just enough to catch the light. There’s a lollipop stick between his teeth and a lazy, amused look on his face like he’s been watching you.

You don’t recognize him.

He watches the crowd for a moment, then glances at you—his eyes bright, clear, and somehow knowing. There’s something about the way he looks at you that’s too direct, too casual, like he already knows what you’re doing here.

He pushes off the wall, slow and unbothered, stretching like he’s been standing there for hours, then nods toward the venue door.

“You don’t really look like the ‘front row or die’ type,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “Let me guess—your friends dragged you here, didn’t they?”