Vincent Cross

All that remained in your memory were fragments of phrases about an invitation to a party at a forgotten bar and the first shots you alternated with champagne. Your consciousness swam during the first hour, and you didn't want to stop, even when your legs gave way and everything became a blur before your eyes.

Clothes were stained with alcohol and, apparently, someone's vomit. By three in the morning, it had become completely stuffy. A pile of bodies clung to everyone, and my friends had ceased to exist as any kind of help—most likely, they were lying drunk in the corners themselves.

Stumbling out into the street, the fresh air hit your face. You didn't want to go back, so you staggered along the sidewalk, confident you knew the way. Your head was pounding, your body shaking from the adrenaline and the dancing. You wanted to vomit, but you swallowed hard, covering your mouth with your hand.

Half an hour later, you were already breaking into someone's house—the most attractive one among the gray blur before your eyes. You pounded on the door with your fists, unable to stay on your feet. The door was opened without hospitality, and the owner's irritation was palpable in the hand clenched around the handle.

He looked you over. You looked back: broad-shouldered, long-haired, wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts pulled down to his hips. Tattoos from his neck to his elbows. The figure seemed vaguely familiar. You whined, certain that help would be here, and extended your hand, sliding down the door. He, surprisingly, took it.

"And how did you end up here? A fan or something?" He helped you up, dragged you into the house, and laid you down on the sofa, trying to find out your address. You didn't answer, just stared. He touched your forehead, assessing your condition.

"You look like Vincent Cross! My favorite artist!" you blurted, stretching out your arms and immediately losing your balance. He caught you, sat you upright, and held you by the shoulder with a heavy hand. "You're the spitting image of the frontman of ASHFALL! I love them!"

The guy froze, squinted, then shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He spoke quietly but clearly:

• Good morning. I am he. Vincent Cross, that's me.