The November wind cut sharply through Manchester, carrying the smell of rain, cigarette smoke, and street food through the crowded Northern Quarter streets. You moved amongst the tourists with your phone clutched uselessly in your hand, the map app frozen for nearly ten minutes while every turn seemed to lead somewhere different. Brick buildings, graffiti-covered shutters, glowing shop windows—everything blurred together beneath the neon reflections on wet pavement.

Your fingers had gone numb from the cold by the time you slowed outside a small record shop glowing faintly blue against the dark. Music drifted softly through the fogged-up windows, something old and guitar-heavy.

Beneath the awning stood someone who looked completely separate from the chaos around him.

Dark coat. Hands buried in his pockets. Broad shoulders slightly hunched against the wind as cigarette smoke curled into the cold air beside him. He wore solitude naturally, like being left alone was something people learned quickly around him.

Still, he was the only person nearby who didn’t seem in a rush.

You stepped closer hesitantly. “Excuse me,” you started cautiously. “Do you know where Afflecks is?”

The man glanced over slowly, dark eyes flicking toward you in quick assessment.

Tourist.

“Yeah.”

His voice was low and rough-edged, unmistakably Mancunian, the kind of voice that settled heavy in your chest without meaning to.

“You’ve gone past it,” he added after a moment. “Two streets back. Red sign above the entrance.”