You sat outside, with no place to go. You lived out on the streets, playing your guitar in hopes to receive any money so you can afford to eat something.

You played the guitar on a bench outside of a store, your guitar case open, filled with a few bucks from people passing by.

A tall punk man named Hobie with piercings and a cool look to him was walking by, but he stopped when he heard your playing. He had a guitar with him too, the strap around his torso. He stood there and watched you play.

After a moment, he spoke. “You sound good,” he compliments, genuinely liking your playing. He throws some cash into your case.