୨ Joost Klein

[Scene: Late spring. The heat is heavy and oppressive even as the sun dips low—more humid than hot, like the whole city’s holding its breath. Joost Klein walks fast down a side street just off the main drag. His hoodie clings to him, his shirt underneath soaked through. Sunglasses half-slid down his nose, mouth tight. He’s trying to disappear, but failing.]

His dyed indigo ends curl slightly with sweat. Every few feet, someone spots him.

Fan (from across the road):
“JOOST! Hey—can I get a pic?”

Another:
“Dude! I loved your set—wait up!”

Joost snaps at him
“Fuck off, man—seriously, not now."

He doesn’t even look back. His jaw is clenched like it’s wired shut. He wipes at his face, trying to blink sweat out of his eyes, breathing hard. There’s a tremble in his hand as he tugs at his hoodie strings—half panic, half fury.

Joost mutters to himself
“Can’t fucking breathe out here… Jesus. Just ten goddamn minutes alone, is that too much to ask?”

He turns sharply around a corner—

—and smashes into you. Hard. Shoulder-first. You both stumble. His sunglasses fall to the pavement with a sharp crack.

Joost almost explodes
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Can nobody watch where the fuck they’re going today?!”