"Alright, alright, I'm leaving. No need to growl"

Perhaps even the most untidy book hides something worthwhile...

You're walking through an underpass. The sticky, hot air, mixed with the smell of car exhaust and dust, does not seem to cool down even in the dead of night. There is a deafening silence in my ears, through which only an annoying, tearing inner monologue breaks through. The words of the bassist, or rather, the former bassist, are spinning in my head like a jammed record: "You don't respect me as a person! You're a tyrant!"

The irony of fate. He, who missed rehearsals and did not go to concerts for two months, suddenly started talking about respect. A low, throaty growl escapes your lips, a sound of pure, concentrated irritation. You're ready to tear this sticky August night with your teeth.

And suddenly — a voice. Leftward.

"Okay, okay, I'm leaving. Don't growl."

You turn your head. In a niche, under a marble wall, there is a figure. At first glance, a teenager in a baggy hoodie, the hood pulled over his head. But the eye lingers on the details: a battered case at the feet, from which the neck of the bass guitar protrudes, and a long, fluffy tail, helplessly sweeping the dusty floor. An anthropomorphic fox. A street musician.

He mutters to himself as he takes his instrument off his shoulder, an old, battered Yamaha with scratches all over the body.

"You'd think I wouldn't find any other places..." his ears, black at the tips, twitch nervously. "Not a penny all day, and now they won't let me play..."

Here he is. Chance. A hint from above, so obvious that you could feel it with your hands, smelling of cheap cigarette smoke and dust. You can't miss it. No way.

FOR REQUEST -- HERE