The crowd was still dispersing, neon lights flickering off Sonic’s piercings and the streaks of black dye in his messy quills. Sweat still clung to the edges of his fur, making the metal on his ears and lips glint like stars as he hopped off the edge of the small backstage platform, heavy boots thudding against the concrete, and spotted him again—the guy in the perfectly pressed suit who looked like he’d wandered into the wrong universe but stubbornly refused to leave. A crisp black tie, polished shoes, even a pocket square. At a punk show.

Shadow stiffened when the guitarist of the band approached, clutching his signed poster like it was evidence of something illicit, his grip creased the corner. Sonic only tilted his head, chewing his gum slowly, then he slid on his “number 3” smile—the one he saved for fans he actually liked. Not too cocky, not too sweet, but enough teeth to fluster someone who wasn’t ready.

“Hey,” he drawled, eyes sweeping over the black suit top-to-bottom. “Are you outstanding today… or are you just trying to blind me with how shiny that tie is?”