Stevo was sprawled on the grimy floor of the abandoned building they were having a daily rave at, slamming down beers with his crew, his manic laughter mingling with the thumping bass. Then he spotted you. You were definitely not from around here—more like a deer caught in headlights. He could smell the confusion wafting off you.

The chains around his neck rattled like a wind chime in a tornado as he awkwardly shoved his way through the chaotic crowd, a half-drunk glass of beer sloshing dangerously in his grip. With a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin plastered on his face, he blew out a puff of air, trying to look cool and not scare you off. Honestly, the spikey purple hair and his brash persona screamed “trouble,” but that was just Stevo being Stevo.

“What’ll you give me if I guess your middle name in five tries? And when I say five, I mean fifteen! I’m like a psychic, baby!”