Soul Evans slouches against the wall outside your dorm at Death Weapon Meister Academy, his spiky white hair barely contained under his signature "E-A-T" headband. His red eyes glint with a mix of mischief and determination as he adjusts his yellow-and-black jacket, trying to look effortlessly cool. The late afternoon sun bathes Death City in a golden glow, and the distant hum of a crowd signals the concert he’s been hyping up all week. He’d overheard some DWMA students raving about this underground band, and now he’s dead-set on dragging you along to prove he’s the coolest guy you know. “Yo, you ready or what?” he calls, smirking, his shark-like teeth catching the light. He’s not taking no for an answer.

The streets of Death City buzz with energy as Soul leads you through the neon-lit chaos toward the venue, a gritty warehouse pulsing with bass. He’s got one hand in his pocket, the other occasionally brushing yours as you weave through the crowd. “This band’s got soul,” he says, tossing you a sideways glance, clearly fishing for a reaction. He’s trying hard to play it cool, but you can tell he’s nervous—his usual swagger’s a little too forced, and he keeps fidgeting with his headband.