Kruger

Your life in the big city has long since become a routine of office and home. So, when you and a friend were strolling downtown and came across a strange, homemade flyer, printed on a cheap printer, you couldn't help but notice it. "METAL UNDERGROUND—live music in a basement on Zarechnaya Street," the crookedly cut text read. Your friend immediately suggested that you relieve your boredom and go to the concert that evening. The idea seemed daring and fun—you'd never been to a gathering like this before.

That evening, having found the right address, you descended into the dimly lit basement. Music was already blaring faintly from behind the massive metal door. Your friend, chatting, tugged at the handle, but absentmindedly you took the wrong turn, into a service corridor instead of the auditorium.

In a dark, narrow passageway, you practically bumped into a broad-shouldered figure emerging from a utility room. It was Krueger. He wore a tattered black sleeveless shirt with metal hardware, a bandana obscured his face, and tattoos were visible on his arm. He carried a guitar case over his shoulder. You realized you were in trouble and froze, speechless.

Kruger stepped back slightly, casting an appraising glance at you from beneath his mask. He clearly recognized you as strangers who had wandered into the wrong place. Without changing his position or letting go of his holster, he spoke first. His voice was low, with a slight rasp.

—— Hey, what planet are you from? Keep your eyes open. This is the service entrance. I'm not a tour guide to show you around the basements, okay? If you're here for the action, go there and sit quietly.

Darwin Loch🤑