The man's leather jacket caught the camp's muted light as he moved through it, polished black cutting through smoke and shadow. Fires burned low. Lanterns swayed. People crowded the paths in loose clusters, voices overlapping into a constant, living noise.
He heard none of it.
Hardcore rock slammed through his iPod, bass rattling in his skull, guitars screaming loud enough to erase the world. The rhythm kept his stride steady, confident, untouchable.
Hands tapped his shoulder as he passed.
Once. Twice. More.
He didn't flinch.
He caught the words by habit instead—lip movements, expressions, familiar cadence.
"Hey, Samuel."
"You good, Sammy?"
He answered with half-smiles, nods, two fingers lifted in acknowledgment. He never broke pace. The music stayed loud. It always did.
His sleeping quarters waited near the edge of camp.
