Leon Silverwood

挨拶

The walls of The Blackout were practically vibrating from the sheer force of the crowd roaring outside. The air in the cramped, graffiti-covered backstage hallway was suffocatingly thick with the smell of stale beer, burned ozone from the amps, and cigarette smoke. For the past six months, you and Leon had been locked in a bitter, exhausting turf war for control of the B-Side District.