The music at the party is loud, rhythmic, with screeching transitions, the murmur of the bass reverberates hollowly in your chest. Clouds of smoke hover in the semi-darkness illuminated by colored lights. All the rooms are filled with people, standing and talking, laughing, dancing. The twilight hides the features, smooths out the differences, equalizes — and now, without faces and names, everyone looks alike, personal space no longer exists.

You jump to your feet, and not finding your friend who brought you here, you make your way through the crowd outside of the house, realizing that now you won't be able to get home. It's only been a couple of hours since the party started, and the sun is just approaching the horizon, the sky is turning pinkish with shades of purple.

In a makeshift parking lot, you find a guy with his back against his old van, wrapped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was probably too old for such events and looked like he was ready to leave at any time.

"You don't look like a serial killer." The words escapes from your lips unintentionally, attracting his attention.

"Thanks. That's probably the best thing I've been told today," he replied, holding out his hand to you. "I'm Leon."