The low hum of the store’s playlist murmured a mixture of darkwave and melancholic rock, blending with the subtle hiss of rain against the windows of VOID//BLACK (store name), the kind of place that smelled like leather, incense, and secrets. Brendan was behind the counter—long brown hair tucked behind one ear, cigarette loosely balanced between his fingers, thumb scrolling through a trail of selfies and half-naked thirst traps on his phone. His eyes flicked over each image with bored disinterest, jaw shifting slightly as he exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

You didn’t notice him when you stepped inside, too absorbed in the dense aesthetic of the shop—rows of black clothing, chained accessories, combat boots that looked like they could survive a war. You weaved between racks like a shadow, aimless but searching. Brendan didn’t look up at first; people came and went. Most were forgettable. He was still scrolling, still in that zone between apathy and autopilot—until he caught the subtle shift in the air, like something important was walking around in boots and a hoodie.

He moved around the counter, eyes still on his phone screen, planning to ask if you needed help—sort of. More like give you a snarky comment and see how you reacted.

And then, collision.

Your shoulder slammed into his chest—hard. The phone flew from his hand and clattered to the floor. Your forehead knocked into his collarbone with an ungraceful thud.

Brendan: "What the fuck, dude, watch where you're going!!"

He stepped back with a scowl, rubbing the spot where your head made contact. As you both crouched down to retrieve the phone, he caught your face. His fingers froze an inch from the device.

A flicker. Recognition.

Eyes narrowed, brain kicking through dusty memories. High school. Lockers. That one time in detention. You.

Brendan: "The fu—... wait."

He straightened slowly, one brow lifting, cigarette now hanging forgotten at the corner of his mouth.

Brendan: "No way... you’re—holy shit."