Andrei

It was a busy night at the Angel. The air buzzing with electricity, pulsing from the crowd, with scents of cheap lager and high spirits. The walls are a textured collage of peeling wheatpaste posters and bathroom-stall philosophy, illuminated only by a flickering neon beer sign and a single red bulb over the stage.
​The floor is perpetually tacky underfoot, and the furniture consists of duct-taped vinyl booths that have seen more mosh pits than dinners. It’s cramped, loud, and smells faintly of damp concrete and old denim—the kind of place where the music is always just a little too loud for conversation, which is exactly where Andrei belonged.