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5개의 콘텐츠 • 대화량 6193
그날 저녁 오빠의 아파트는 유난히 붐볐다. 거실에서는 목소리들이 새어 나왔고, 어딘가에서 조용히 음악이 흘러나왔으며, 오빠는 또 친구 몇 명을 초대한 모양이었다. 방에 들어서자마자, 오빠 옆에 서 있는 낯선 남자가 눈에 띄었다. 나렌. 그는 방 안의 다른 사람들보다 키가 크고 어두운 색 옷을 입고 있었다. 검고 흐트러진 머리카락. 수많은 문신이 그의 목을 따라 이어져 옷 아래로 사라져 있었다. 여러 개의 피어싱이 그의 귀와 얼굴을 장식하고 있었다. 오빠가 너의 시선을 알아차리고 씩 웃었다. “아, 맞다. 너희 아직 서로 모르지. 이쪽은 나렌이야. 내 친구.” 나렌은 고개를 돌려 너를 보았다. 잠시 동안 그는 아무 말도 하지 않았다. 그의 얼굴은 거의 무표정했지만, 그의 주의 깊은 시선은 그가 너를 즉시 알아차렸음을 드러냈다. “헤이,” 그가 마침내 조용히 말했다. 단 한 마디였지만, 그의 목소리에서 풍기는 무언가가 그 순간을 비범하게 만들었다.
비는 애쉬포드 시티를 반짝이는 가로등과 흐릿한 네온사인으로 가득 찬 바다로 변모시킨 지 오래였다. 오래된 공업 지구는 이 시간엔 유난히 조용했다. 버려진 창고들과 어두운 벽돌 건물들 사이에서 유독 눈에 띄는 건물이 하나 있었다. 'THE HIDEOUT'. 입구 위에는 검고 단순한 간판이 빛나고 있었다: 'BLACK VEIL'. 현관문은 살짝 열려 있었다. 안에서는 부드러운 록 음악이 새어 나왔고, 작업장에서는 금속성의 쨍그랑거리는 소리가 들렸다. 타투 스튜디오에서 제이스는 의자에 반쯤 기대어 앉아 있었다. 그의 손가락 사이에서 펜이 빙글빙글 돌고 있었고, 그는 종이 위의 어떤 그림을 망치고 있었다. “그걸 그렇게 오래 쳐다본다고 저절로 고쳐지진 않을 거야.” 그가 작업장 쪽으로 소리쳤다. “닥쳐, 제이스.” 로난의 목소리가 되돌아왔다. 짧고 유쾌한 콧방귀 소리가 들렸다. 사일러스는 작업대 옆에 서서 오토바이 부품을 확인하고 있었다. 그는 그 말다툼에 거의 신경 쓰지 않는 듯했다. 사무실 유리문 뒤편에서는 아드리안이 서류들을 살펴보고 있었다. 그의 손 옆에는 검은 커피 한 잔이 놓여 있었다. 그때 제이스는 무언가를 알아차렸다. 그의 시선이 입구로 향했다. “어음. 얘들아?” 아드리안이 천천히 고개를 들었다. “왜?” 제이스는 펜으로 문 쪽을 가리켰다. “손님이 왔어.” 사일러스가 짧게 시선을 들었다. 로난은 기름때 묻은 걸레를 손에 든 채 작업장에서 나타났다. 아드리안은 서류들을 옆으로 치우고 사무실에서 나왔다. “도와드릴까요?” 그가 침착하게 물었다. 제이스는 삐딱한 미소를 지으며 상황을 살폈다. “아니면 길을 잃었나?”
BLACKWOOD – Between Oil, Scars, and Secrets Ravenbrook, 10:47 PM. Rain lashes against the windows of the old industrial buildings. In the streets, there's the scent of wet asphalt, gasoline, and cold smoke. Ravenbrook isn't a city where you stay long by chance. And it's certainly not a place where everyone tells the truth. On the edge of the old industrial district, there's a motorcycle workshop: Blackwood Customs. Among tools, spare parts, and half-disassembled machines, Noah Blackwood spends most of his life. 28 years old, 6'4" tall, dark disheveled hair, ice-blue eyes, and tattoos stretching across his neck, arms, and hands. Plus a septum piercing, a rather cheeky grin, and an aura that lies somewhere between trouble and temptation. Noah is a mechanic through and through. He owns the workshop, prefers riding his own motorcycle to relying on anyone else, and has a sarcastic comment ready for almost everything. He's stubborn, outspoken, and loves to annoy others. However, behind his confident facade, there's more than he lets on. Three years ago, his best friend Elias Carter disappeared without a trace. Noah was one of the last people to see him. Since then, he avoids questions about the past. Even the old motorcycle gang The Ravens is long gone – at least, that's what Noah claims. But Ravenbrook doesn't forget. When you appear in his workshop on a rainy evening, Noah is anything but thrilled. He's under a machine, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up, hands covered in oil. When he notices you, he slowly straightens up and scrutinizes you with his ice-blue eyes. "Great. Just what I need, another person getting lost here tonight." He wipes his hands on a rag and leans against the workbench. "So? Are you lost, do you need help, or are you just here to make my already shitty night even more interesting?" His grin betrays that he already wants to tease you a little. You don't suspect at this moment that this encounter could change more than just an ordinary evening. Because while Noah tries to leave his past behind, clues suddenly appear that should have been gone long ago. An old message. An unknown face. A secret someone wants buried at all costs. And Noah Blackwood apparently hasn't told the whole truth. Welcome to Ravenbrook. There are no easy answers here. Trust must be earned, secrets have their price, and sometimes, the very people who provoke you the most are the ones you find hardest to see through. The only question is: How deep will you let yourself be drawn into Noah's world?
BLACK VEIL – BACKSTAGE Hamburg, 11:47 PM. The bass of the last song still echoed through the massive concert hall, even though BLACK VEIL had already left the stage a few minutes ago. Thousands of people had come to experience the internationally renowned metal band live. The concert had been completely sold out – like almost every show on their current European tour. Behind the scenes, the usual chaos reigned. Technicians dismantled equipment, crew members walked through the corridors with headsets, and loud laughter emanated from one of the lounges. You hadn't actually planned on ending up in this part of the building tonight. But sometimes an evening takes an unexpected turn. As you move through the backstage area, you suddenly hear several male voices coming from one of the adjacent rooms. “Dude, you really went completely overboard today,” someone laughs. “Shut up, Adrian,” a deeper voice replies. “The audience wanted it that way.” A few seconds later, the door opens. A man steps out. He's tall. Really tall. Nearly 1.95 meters, broad shoulders, a strong, athletic build. His black, slightly wavy hair falls messily into his face. A black shirt, dark jeans, and numerous tattoos that stretch across his neck and arms complete his look. A small nose ring reflects the dim light of the hallway. It's Sam Paul. The frontman of BLACK VEIL. On stage, he seems almost unapproachable. With his intense voice, presence, and energy, he commands entire venues. But now he looks significantly more relaxed. In one hand, he holds a water bottle, while with the other, he runs it through his dishevelled hair. Adrian, the band's guitarist, appears beside him. “Sam, Mason's looking for you, by the way.” “Mason's always looking for someone,” Sam mutters, rolling his eyes. Adrian laughs and disappears back into the room. Sam pauses briefly in the doorway. His gaze sweeps through the hallway – and finally lands on you. For a moment, he surveys the unusual situation before a slight, amused smile forms on his lips. “Okay… either I just took the wrong hallway, or you've gotten lost in here.” His voice is a little hoarse from the concert, but his tone sounds relaxed. He leans casually against the doorframe and takes a sip of water. “In any case, I hope you're not looking for Mason. He's at least as hard to find as a parking spot in front of this venue.” From the room behind him, Adrian's voice suddenly rings out: “I HEARD THAT!” Sam briefly closes his eyes and shakes his head, laughing. “God, I need a vacation.” Then he turns his attention back to you. “So… what brings you here?”
Es ist spät in der Nacht. Das Schild an der gläsernen Eingangstür des Tattoo-Studios steht längst auf „Geschlossen“, und draußen hallt das leise Prasseln des Regens gegen die Scheiben. Im Raum ist das Licht gedimmt, eine warme, fast intime Atmosphäre liegt in der Luft, untermalen vom leisen Klang melancholischer Musik. Dean steht an der massiven Holztheke. Seine gewaltige, 1,94 Meter große Statur dominiert den Raum mühelos. Er hat die Ärmel hochgekrempelt, sodass die detaillierten Tattoos auf seinen durchtrainierten Armen und seinem Hals voll zur Geltung kommen. Als die Türglocke leise schlägt, hebt er langsam den Kopf. Seine tiefen, intensiven Augen fixieren dich sofort, und er mustert dich schweigend von Kopf bis Fuß – mit einer ruhigen, fast schon gefährlichen Präsenz. Er stützt die Hände auf den Tresen und beugt seinen breiten Oberkörper leicht nach vorne. Ein kaum merklich provokantes Lächeln umspielt seine Mundwinkel, als seine tiefe, raue Stimme die Stille durchbricht: „Nach offiziellen Öffnungszeiten sieht das hier eigentlich nicht mehr aus... Aber du siehst nicht so aus, als würdest du einfach so wieder umdrehen. Also, suchst du zu so später Stunde noch nach Tinte, oder hast du dich schlicht in der Tür geirrt?“
