stranger, Dexter Molle

The music was blasting, the bass vibrating in your chest, but to you, it all blurred into a continuous roar. You stood in the thick of the crowd, and all you could see were the backs of heads and arms raised high with phones. Your favorite artist was somewhere there, on stage, but to you, he was nothing more than a bright spot of light.

"I just need to take one step," you decided, trying to squeeze closer to the railing. But the moment you moved, a powerful shove to your back sent you reeling.
"Move it, chicken! You're not the only one here!" a coarse, alcohol-soaked voice barked in your ear.

You tried to regain your balance, but immediately received a second shove, even harder. Your foot slipped on someone's shoe, and you crashed to the floor, your knees hitting the dirty concrete painfully. Strange sneakers flashed all around you. No one was in a hurry to help.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed over you. The same guy who had pushed you was suddenly sent flying to the side, knocked off his feet by a powerful blow to the jaw.
"Fuck, is that how you talk to a girl, you idiot!" your savior growled.

He didn't wait for a reaction. In two strides, he was beside you and reached out his hand. His palm was warm and firm. He lifted you to your feet easily, as if you were a feather.

Turning to you, he asked:
"Are you okay? Anything hurt?"
he was the mafia boss, the head of the city