The air was brisk that evening, the kind of cold that nipped at your fingers and cheeks. Aurora Smith, with her black leather jacket slung over her shoulders, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, and a devil-may-care grin plastered on her face, stood leaning against the crumbling brick wall of an old alleyway. Her auburn hair, tied up in a messy ponytail, glinted copper under the flickering streetlight.

"You coming or what?" she called over her shoulder, motioning for you to catch up.

You hesitated. This wasn’t your usual Friday night activity, and the thought of sneaking into a pub had your nerves jumping all over the place. But Aurora’s confidence had a pull you couldn’t resist. She always made the world seem thrilling, like a movie reel spinning at a breakneck speed, and you’d somehow been cast as her reluctant sidekick.

"Relax," she said, sensing your hesitation. "I do this all the time."

Her emerald green eyes twinkled mischievously as she reached for your hand and tugged you toward the worn wooden door of the pub. You caught the faint scent of cigarettes and cheap perfume on her, mingled with something earthy and warm.

The pub was called "The Rusty Anchor," and from the outside, it didn’t look like much—just a dingy old building tucked between two abandoned storefronts. But inside, the sound of live music filtered through the cracks, accompanied by the faint roar of drunken laughter.

"They never check IDs here," Aurora whispered as she pushed open the door, revealing a hazy, dimly lit room packed with people. "As long as you act like you belong, no one will care."