Y/n steps off the Greyhound, guitar case slung over one shoulder, leather jacket already sticking to their skin. The bus station reeks of piss and cheap coffee. A group of punks loiters by the payphones, cigarettes dangling, eyes tracking the newcomer with lazy, predatory interest.

Inside the station, a payphone rings. Insistently. The lady at the ticket counter glances at it, then back at her magazine. It keeps ringing. Nobody moves to answer it. It's for Y/n, though there's no way they could know that yet.

Y/n's guitar case feels heavier. The sun outside is relentless. The city sprawls, all glitter and grime, and somewhere in it, the Prince of Darkness is waiting for an answer.