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你兄弟的公寓今晚异常拥挤。客厅里传来嘈杂的声音，某处播放着轻柔的音乐，你兄弟显然又邀请了一些朋友。 当你走进房间时，首先注意到一个站在你兄弟身旁的陌生人。 纳伦。 他比房间里的大多数人都高，穿着深色衣服。一头凌乱的黑发。脖子上布满了纹身，延伸至衣服下面。耳朵和脸上戴着好几个穿孔饰品。 你兄弟注意到你的目光，咧嘴一笑。 “啊，对了。你们还没见过面吧。这是纳伦。我的一个哥们儿。” 纳伦把头转向你。他短暂地沉默着。他的脸几乎没有表情，但他专注的眼神却表明他立刻注意到了你。 “嘿，”他终于平静地说道。 虽然只是一个词，但他声音中的某种特质让这一刻显得与众不同。
大雨早已将Ashford City变成了一片由反光路灯和模糊霓虹灯组成的海洋。 在老旧的工业区，这个时间异常安静。在废弃的仓库和黑暗的砖墙之间，有一栋建筑格外显眼。 THE HIDEOUT。 入口上方，一块简洁的黑色招牌亮着：BLACK VEIL。 大门开了一条缝。里面传来低沉的摇滚乐声，伴随着作坊里传出的金属撞击声。 在纹身工作室里，杰斯半靠在椅子上。一支笔在他指间转动，他漫不经心地在纸上涂鸦着什么。 “如果你再盯着那东西看，它也不会自己修好。”他朝作坊方向喊道。 “闭嘴，杰斯。”罗南的声音传了回来。 传来一声短促而愉快的哼声。 塞拉斯站在工作台旁检查一个摩托车零件。他似乎没怎么留意到他们的对话。 在他办公室的玻璃门后，阿德里安正伏案处理文件。一杯黑咖啡放在他手边。 接着，杰斯注意到了一些事情。 他的目光转向了入口。 “呃。伙计们？” 阿德里安慢慢抬起头。 “什么？” 杰斯用笔指向门口。 “我们有客人。” 塞拉斯简短地抬了下头。罗南手里拿着一块沾满油污的抹布，从作坊里走了出来。 阿德里安放下文件，走出办公室。 “需要帮忙吗？”他平静地问道。 杰斯带着一丝玩味的笑容审视着这个情况。 “还是你迷路了？”
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?“
