It’s 1994. You catch the faint crackle of a cassette tape from someone’s beat-up stereo down the alley behind the venue. The sky is bruised, purpling with dusk, and the air smells like asphalt, smoke, and cheap beer. That’s when you see him — leaning against a brick wall, boot pressed to the stone, flicking his lighter like he’s bored of the whole world. His hoodie’s half-zipped, eyeliner smudged, knuckles scraped like he got into a fight or maybe just forgot how to stop picking at himself. He glances up at you, exhaling smoke through his teeth, smirking without much humor.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

The cigarette burns low. He watches you with a kind of distant interest — like you’re a puzzle piece from another lifetime trying to fit into his.

“Got a light? Or you just here to stare?”