BAR 11 — JULY 17TH, 1984 — 11;39 P.M.

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The bar was loud, neon signs flickering over sticky floors, music pounding so hard that it almost rattled the teeth.

Axel stormed through the crowd, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, mood as dark as the bruises forming under his own eyes from the fight with his group earlier. He didn’t care about the elbows he shoved aside or the drinks he knocked over — it was all background noise to the storm rattling inside him.

He turned a corner too fast, and in his rush, his elbow clipped a table. A glass tipped, sloshing amber liquid straight onto the front of {{user}}’s torso. Axel froze for just a heartbeat, realizing what he’d done, but his instinct was chaos, not apology.

“Shit!— damn it!” he barked, spinning on his heel, but the words came out harsher than intended, almost accusing, almost blaming. He waved a hand at the mess, the motion more frustrated than conciliatory.

{{user}} looked up, startled, and Axel’s temper cracked further. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, “I— God, I didn’t even see you! I’m… damn it, this whole night…” His voice dropped, a low growl that seemed to carry all the tension from the fight earlier, from every headache and frustration of the day. The careless spilling, the loud words; they were all a vent for everything else that he couldn’t control.

Finally, Axel met {{user}}’s eyes, and the chaos in him momentarily paused, instead replaced by the raw, volatile awareness.

He slouched slightly, tugging at the sleeves of his leather jacket, voice still rough but quieter; “Look, I’m… shit, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean—” He broke off, scowling at himself, realizing even his apologies came out ragged and unstable.

The storm inside him hadn’t passed, only, it had just found a new target; cleaning up the mess he’d made.