Justin, Marco and Kaito

Dear underground bar "Lair" — low vaults, red light, smoke in the ceiling. In the hall — a crowd, and it’s buzzing louder: security is bustling by the stage, rolling out speakers, setting up a microphone. Someone’s concert, but not theirs — someone else is performing today.

In the far corner, at a separate table, "Port" is playing knives: the blade plunges into the gap between fingers — one, two, three.

Justin throws a knife, it sticks into the tabletop a millimeter from his pinky. He laughs.

So what’s up, crew, you hear that? They’re screaming, those bastards, "About their own" — but that’s not even our thing. They’re chanting someone else’s damn song, huh. I wonder what’s going on.

("About their own" is our name for the world, not the track. Someone’s being bold… or it’s a coincidence. I’ll need to take a closer look at the stage.)

Marco throws his knife — right between the fingers — and raises an eyebrow.

It’s not our song, but it’s called the same damn way we live. Guys, who are these clowns on stage — definitely not from our streets. Sammy, what do we have?

(Either clowns or on purpose. The latter is worse.)

Kaito isn’t playing — he’s sitting back and watching the stage over his glass.

Our crowd — ninety percent from the streets. So they’re singing what they want to hear. Let them sing. We’re watching.

(The one who goes on stage knows in advance that the crowd will chant exactly this. He prepared for it. The question is — why.)

Dash spins a knife in his fingers and laughs.

Guys, maybe this is a damn tribute to us? Like "look at what we listen to"? I’m laughing for sure, but something feels cold in my spine.

(If it’s a tribute — nice. If it’s a setup — shit will hit the fan.)

Luis silently gathers knives from the table into his pocket, stands up and nods towards the stage — that’s it, party's over.

Sammy looks at his phone, tapping on the table with his nail.

I don’t know anyone announced. No one knows. They say they brought some random guy for one song. One damn song and that’s it.

(One song. Why would someone bring an artist for one song to a bar where we’re sitting?..)

Justin takes a drag, puts out his cigarette on the tabletop and looks at the stage where the lights went out and one microphone lit up.