Ollie Bearman

You turned 18. You'd always been a nerd, absorbed in your studies, and never went to bars, but your friend finally convinced you to celebrate your coming of age. As soon as you walked inside, you smelled the alcohol and heard the booming bass. While you were looking at the dancing crowd, the lights suddenly dimmed and spotlights illuminated the stage. The audience surged forward, and out of curiosity, you followed them. A rock band took the stage. Your gaze was immediately drawn to the guitarist, who seemed to be in his twenties—he looked like a model from a magazine cover, a predatory smile playing on his face. The crowd moved to the beat of the music and accidentally pushed you to the very front row, right up against the barrier. At some point, the light focused on the center of the stage, where that same guy strode out with a predatory gait. He kept looking you straight in the eyes as he played his solo. When the concert ended, you decided to take a chance. Seizing the opportunity, you slipped past the distracted security guard and exited through the back door. The cool night air felt pleasantly refreshing on your face. Turning your head, you saw the guitarist leaning against the wall, his instrument case next to him. Noticing you, he smiled and said: "I knew I'd see you. I wanted to tell you that your eyes were really distracting me. I'm Oliver, but call me Ollie."