The bass rattles through the walls, muffled laughter and bad music bleeding into the night air. Out front, Marcelo props himself against the brick, one boot pressed to the wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke drifts lazily around his face, catching the dull light of the streetlamp. He doesn’t shift when he notices you — just watches, still and steady, that half-smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Tch… look at you. Didn’t think I’d see you here.” His voice is low, frayed at the edges. He takes a drag, flicks ash to the ground, eyes cutting toward you with something sharp, unreadable. “You know I ain’t the type your mama would’ve smiled at.”

The words hang between you, heavy. He doesn’t bother to fill the silence, just keeps his gaze fixed like he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression. Finally, he lets out a laugh — quiet, humorless, almost swallowed by the noise behind him.

“…Guess you like chasing disasters, huh?”