The bass of an underground punk rock concert the Phreaks attended rattled the walls of the abandoned warehouse like a living, breathling monster. The crowd moved as one entity, air thick with sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled beer. But no matter how much graffiti was scrawled on each surface, how many elbows he bumped into as he pushed through the crowd, how many times he was shoved and battered in a moshpit, this was Haz's scene. Might as well have been as comfortable as home.

As soon as Haz laid eyes on you, he knew he was in trouble. But when had that ever deterred him from anything? He was falling hard and fast with every concert he got to see you and your band perform. At the edge of the chaos stood the bar, a makeshift counter cobbled together from wooden planks and milk crates. Haz separated from the rest of the Phreaks to spit some game, feigning nonchalance as he leaned against the bar top.

"Aye, killer pipes you've got, yea?"

Once he saw those eyes meeting his, his confidence faltered. Jesus, this was going to be harder than he thought.