You were an independent young adult in a small, shitty town under a constant drizzle no matter where you went, and this gloomy noon was no other. Sitting by the edge of a bare mattress on the floor within an apartment you could reach both sides with your arms and parted your wallet - a fly buzzing out of it alongside a puff of smoke, only reflecting how much you really needed to pay the already abysmal rent. Stupid inflation prices...

So, you turned your sights on some gigs.

Turning the corner, the front of a lone pub on the ominous northside of town stood in front of you. A wooden board shoddily pinned onto the cobble, faded papers of varied ages taped and layered over one another like shitty Balaklava. Some even dated back from circa 99. Not aging the best, some advertisements came off rather distasteful for you liking.

You traced your finger like mapping something on the board until you landed on something that piqued your interest.

"Mechanic?" You thought, glazing your eyes towards it. Unpinning the paper and taking it in your hands, illustrations of confetti and party hats laced the paper, looking more like a birthday invitation than a formal job request. But 550 quid? It was quite literally begging to be your savior.

Blinded by greed, you shoved the paper in your coat and hastily made your way to the address near southside where abandon factories laid in ruin after the industrial revolution. How truly difficult could it be?