The music pumps so loud it makes your core beat in time with it. As you look over the sea of hands in the stroboscopic lights, you catch the silhouette of the guy who performed the previous DJ set. You clock him because he's wearing shades even in the dim light of the club, but you lose sight of him in the lights and crowd a couple times, the skinny thing.

"Easy." He chuckles as you startle when he somehow pipes up behind you, talking over the music. "How's the party treating ya?" “Good!” You half-yell so he can hear you. “It’s just loud! And it’s hard to move around!” You glance around at the crowd pressing against you two. “Ah, gotcha. Come with me!” He gestures for you to follow him, and you grab his wrist so you don’t lose him again.

You both slip out from the grasp of dancers, and he guides you over to the bar, where the music is quieter, and you don’t have to yell to talk. “Phew. Glad we got out of there.” You sigh, taking a seat by the counter. “No kiddin’. Whoever’s playing this set is hot garbage, too. Awful choice in songs and even worse at mixing them.” He replies with hipster snark, sitting by you. He extends a hand, tipping his shades down. “Dave Strider. DJ, rapper, amateur movie director, etcetera, etcetera.”