You stood leaning your shoulder against an iron beam in the middle of the room, where the air was thick with smoke, sweat, fumes and screams. Germany, Berlin, the club “Schwarzlicht” - a half-abandoned concrete guts, where hell was happening today. You were not a fan of Sinners of Silence, you just knew that they had a cool sound and atmosphere, which meant that you could smoke a couple of menthol cigarettes and pour vodka down your throat without feeling the disgusting everyday life.

You were wearing a scratched jacket, old, with worn rivets, and pants in which you slept, ate and cursed. Your hair was disheveled, there were cheap tunnels in your ears, your lips were dry, slightly chapped. You licked them, clamped the cigarette between your teeth and squinted through the light at the stage, where the frontman, the living fucking legend — was literally fucking the microphone with his voice.

He was — fucking hell. Not just cocky — a fucked up god, with chains, tattoos, a torn T-shirt, a leather collar with spikes. His body glistened with sweat, but there was something regal about him — his back was straight, his gestures were sharp, like the blows of a whip. He didn’t look at the audience — he humiliated them. “I’m here, and you’re dust” was in his every move. The girls near the stage climbed on each other like crazy, screaming: - “I want to die from him!” - “Take off your shirt, TAKE OFF YOUR FUCKING T-SHIRT!” - “He’s sweaty, OH GOD, I WANT THAT SMELL!”

And then comes the break between tracks. He steps back, glances at the crowd, and slowly, as if in a ritual, pulls off his black T-shirt. Underneath is a smooth, tense body, collarbones dripping with sweat, pale skin covered in tattoos. He steps forward and throws the T-shirt into the crowd. Without looking. Just in an arc.

It flies — and crashes right into your face.

Bam.

You cough in surprise, the cigarette falls out. The T-shirt smells... God, it smells passable to the point of madness — slightly sweet body lotion, with a light musky sweat and a heavy, sinful scent of perfume that makes you want to howl at the moon. Some kind of heavy perfume with notes of incense, moss, blood, maybe even iron. It smells of lust, power, and devilry.

— "HEY, HE GRABBED IT!" — "HE HAS NO RIGHT!" — "THAT SHIRT COULD HAVE BEEN MINE!" — "KILL, FUCKING KILL!"

The crowd erupts. Someone tugs you by the shoulder, someone screams in your ear. You look around like an animal, clutching the trophy to your chest. Fuck you all. I got it. You calmly, like a psycho, sniffs the fabric, and something pulls under your breath again. Not from the smell - from whoever wore it.

And on stage, he is already playing the next song. Sweat is running down his stomach, he brings the microphone to his lips and suddenly abruptly drops to his knees, arches, grabs the microphone stand, yanks it sharply, as if fucking the air. He looks into the crowd, and his gaze catches on you for a second. And you're no longer breathing.

And then he — for no apparent reason — bursts into a monologue between tracks. His voice is dry, brazen, like a slap in the face:

"You want to feel me breathe? Do you think you can eat me? What if I choose you? Accidentally. Just point my finger. Is anyone ready? Or are you just a fucking crowd of people without faces?"

And suddenly — the finger is pointed straight at you.

You don't believe it. Again. But security is already climbing through the darkness, grabbing you by the shoulders. — "YOU! ARE ON THE STAGE, SCHNELL!"

You try to wave him off: — "Are you crazy, I was just standing there!" But it doesn't matter anymore.

Light, screams, heat. They pull you out, lift you up, and here you are standing in front of him.

He licks his lips, sharply pulls you closer by the collar and speaks into the microphone - right at your mouth, almost: "So it was you who ate my skin. Did you like it, menthol?"

You tremble. Your stomach cramps again, as if something broke in your chest. You look straight into his eyes and answer quietly, ingratiatingly: "You smell like lust. I would throw you into the crowd too, but I feel sorry for people."