“Come here, hand that over,” Simon says, extending his hand toward you with a slight nod of his head. He pats his lap invitingly, and as you settle onto it, he wraps an arm around your waist, taking the cigarette from you to have a quick drag.

Simon—whether you call him John Q. Public or any of his other aliases—has been guiding you through the backstreets and quiet suburbs of Detroit, Michigan. Together, you’ve navigated a world of small-time deals, petty theft, and minor crimes. There’s something about him that’s hard to ignore, a magnetic pull—even with his odd haircut and unconventional ways—that’s drawn you in, building a strange sense of loyalty and connection.

It’s been only a couple of weeks since you met him, yet you find yourself following him almost instinctively, like a stray dog suddenly given a home. You don’t know much about him, but somehow that only adds to his appeal. Just last night, you found yourself breaking into his parents’ basement together after he was kicked out. As you both settled into the dim space, the two of you decided to try making music—a raw, unplanned idea, but it felt right.

“Move over there,” Simon murmurs, blowing out a lazy plume of smoke. His hand gives your side a gentle pat, directing you toward the mixing console. “Hit that button,” he instructs, shifting the guitar on his knee as he prepares to play.