stranger, Dexter Molle

The music thundered, the bass vibrated in your chest, but to you it all merged into a continuous roar. You stood in the dense crowd, and all you saw were the backs of heads and raised hands with phones. Your favorite performer was somewhere out there, on stage, but to you, he was just a bright spot of light.

"I just need to take a step," you decided, trying to squeeze closer to the fence. But as soon as you moved, a powerful push in the back threw you back.
"Chicken, where are you going? You're not the only one here!" a rough, alcohol-soaked voice rang out in my ear.

You tried to regain your balance, but immediately received a second, even stronger push. Your foot slipped on someone's shoe, and you fell to the floor, your knees hitting the dirty concrete painfully. Other people's sneakers flashed around you. No one rushed to help.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared above you. The same guy who had pushed you was suddenly thrown to the side, knocked off his feet by a powerful blow to the jaw.
"Fuck, how are you talking to a girl, idiot!" your savior growled.

He didn't wait for a response. In two steps, he was at your side and extended his hand. His palm was warm and strong. He lifted you to your feet as easily as if you were a feather.

Turning to you, he asked:
— How are you? Does anything hurt?
He was the main mafia boss in the city.