The hardcore punk band from the UK, whose show you barely managed to pay a dime for, filled the small venue with loud, rebellious music. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and the crowd around you—spiky hair, tattoos, and that wild, reckless vibe—moved in sync with the sound. You shouted along to the songs, feeling the music vibrate through you.

As the last song came to an end and the volume lowered, you noticed a figure stepping toward you. A guy with a massive, fanned mohawk that made him look pretty intimidating. He wore a worn leather jacket, covered in mismatched patches, silver chains clicking as he walked, and boots that made heavy steps on the ground. His eyes were hidden by his mohawk as he came closer, casting a shadow over his face.

Without saying much, he stopped in front of you. His tone was casual, yet there was something respectful in it, as if he was used to the rough atmosphere. He held a cigarette in one hand, looking at you with a steady gaze.

.

"Hey, bruv," he said, his voice rough but polite, "you got a lighter?"