The low hum of a distorted bassline thrummed through the walls of The Devil's Lullaby, a dive bar on the edge of the city, where the neon lights outside flickered in time with the muffled beat of punk anthems. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke—a perfect sanctuary for the lost, the angry, and the disenchanted.
Ren pushed through the heavy wooden doors, his blue hair with pink streaks catching the dim, erratic light of the bar's ancient, sputtering neon sign. He shook off the chill of the night as he stepped into the warm, chaotic embrace of the bar. His leather biker jacket creaked as he moved, adorned with patches from bands that had shaped his life, and beneath it, his arms and chest bore the stories of a thousand restless nights, inked in old-school American tattoos—sailor's anchors, pin-up girls, skulls with roses clamped between their teeth. The metal piercings in his nose and ears glinted as he surveyed the scene, eyes sharp despite the laid-back swagger in his step.
The music was loud, the band on stage thrashing out a raw, angry tune that matched the energy of the place. Punks with wild hair and torn clothes shouted along, their voices blending into a cacophony that echoed off the bar's graffiti-covered walls.
Ren's bandmates were already there, sitting at the bar, their drinks in hand. They were his family, the only ones who had ever mattered to him. But as his eyes flicked across the room, something else caught his attention—a girl, cornered by two punks at a table near the back, their leering faces lit by the faint glow of an old jukebox.
The girl was young, maybe in her early twenties, with bright green hair and wide, frightened eyes. She looked like she belonged there—tattoos snaked up her arms, and her clothes were as ragged as anyone else's in the bar—but the fear in her eyes told Ren that she wasn't just another punk trying to make it through the night. The two punks harassing her, however, were a different story. They were both big, built like bulldogs with shoulders too wide for their leather jackets, and their faces were twisted into cruel smirks as they boxed her in against the wall.
Ren's jaw tightened, and without a second thought, he started walking toward them, his boots heavy on the sticky floor. He could feel the eyes of the bar on him as he moved—some curious, some wary. But Ren didn't care about the audience. He cared about the girl.
As he approached, one of the punks leaned in closer to her, his voice a low, menacing growl. "C'mon, sweetheart, don't be shy. We just want a little fun."
"Back off," Ren said, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.
The punks looked up, their sneers widening when they saw him. The larger of the two, a guy with a shaved head and a thick chain around his neck, spat on the ground. "And who the hell are you?"
Ren grinned, but there was no humor in it. "Just a guy who doesn't like seeing pricks like you harassing women. Now, why don't you two get lost before this gets ugly?"
The second punk, a guy with a greasy mohawk and bad teeth, snorted. "You think you're some kind of hero, pretty boy? You're in the wrong place for that."
Ren shrugged, his muscles tensing under his jacket. "Maybe, but I'm here now. So why don't you make the smart choice and walk away?"
The punks exchanged a look, then laughed—a sound that was more bark than humor. The one with the mohawk stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "I don't think so. You should've kept your mouth shut."
Before Ren could respond, the punk swung at him—a wild, heavy punch aimed at his head. But Ren was faster. He ducked under the swing, feeling the rush of air as the fist sailed past his head, and then he countered with a sharp jab to the punk's gut. The guy doubled over with a grunt, eyes bulging as the wind was knocked out of him.
Ren didn't give him time to recover. He followed up with an elbow to the side of the punk's head, sending him crashing to the floor. But the other punk was already on him, grabbing Ren by the collar and yanking him back. Ren spun around, driving his knee up into the guy's stomach, and followed it with a brutal uppercut that cracked the punk's jaw and sent him stumbling backward into a table, scattering drinks and chairs.
The bar erupted in noise—shouts, cheers, the clatter of breaking glass. The band on stage didn't stop playing, the fast-paced rhythm of their song now a soundtrack to the chaos. But before Ren could finish the job, the first punk recovered and tackled him from behind, slamming him into the floor. Pain shot through Ren's back, but he didn't let it slow him down. He twisted around, driving his boot into the punk's knee, and there was a sickening crack as the joint gave way.
The punk screamed, but Ren wasn't done. He grabbed the guy by the shirt and slammed his fist into his face—once, twice, three times, until blood splattered across the floor. The punk went limp, but Ren didn't stop until he was sure the guy was out cold.
By then, the second punk was back on his feet, blood dripping from his broken jaw, eyes burning with fury. He charged at Ren, but before he could reach him, another figure stepped in, blocking his path.
It was Jason, Ren's bassist, a tall guy with a mohawk and more piercings than Ren could count. He grabbed the punk by the throat and lifted him off the ground with ease, slamming him down onto the bar with a force that made the bottles on the shelves rattle.
"Touch him again, and I'll break your fucking neck," Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The punk barely had time to gasp before Danny, the drummer, was on him too, delivering a savage kick to his ribs that sent him rolling off the bar and onto the floor. The rest of the band—Sam, the lead guitarist, and Amy, the keyboardist—were right behind, fists ready to fly.
The fight was over as quickly as it had started. The punks were left groaning on the floor, bloodied and broken, while the rest of the bar watched in stunned silence. Ren wiped the blood from his knuckles, breathing hard but feeling the familiar adrenaline rush that came with a good fight.
"Thanks for the assist," Ren said, grinning at his bandmates.
Jason smirked, cracking his knuckles. "You looked like you could use a hand."
Danny nodded, his expression serious as he looked at the girl, who was still huddled in the corner, wide-eyed and shaking. "You okay?"
She nodded, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Y-Yeah… thanks to you guys."
Ren walked over to her, offering her a hand. "Don't worry about it. Those assholes won't bother you again."
She took his hand, and as she stood up, Ren could see the fear fading from her eyes, replaced by relief and gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered.
Ren shrugged, giving her one of his trademark grins. "Just doing what any decent guy would do. You should stick around, though. The band's about to play, and you don't want to miss She managed a small smile, nodding. "I will."
Ren gave her a final reassuring grin before turning on his heel and weaving his way through the aftermath of the brawl. The two punks were still groaning on the floor, but no one in the bar paid them any mind now. The patrons had seen enough fights to know when one was over, and besides, Ren and his bandmates were regulars—everyone knew they were the kings and queen of this joint.
He approached the bar, where Fred was wiping down a chipped glass with a rag that looked like it had seen better days. Fred was in his early forties but looked older, with the weathered face of someone who had spent a few too many nights under the neon lights. His dirty trucker hat, emblazoned with some faded logo, was perched backward on his head, and his brown plaid shirt had the unmistakable smell of beer and cigarettes clinging to it. Tattoos covered his arms, a chaotic mix of old-school designs, from flaming skulls to half-finished pin-up girls, as if he had started getting inked in his teens and never really stopped.
Fred looked up as Ren approached, a dopey grin spreading across his face. "Well, if it isn't the hero of the night. You really know how to make an entrance, don't ya?"
Ren chuckled, leaning against the bar. "Oh, that was just a warm up, Fred. You know how it is."
Fred nodded sagely, as if Ren had just imparted some great wisdom. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You want the usual?"
Ren tapped the bar with his fingers, his many rings clinking against the wood. "You know me too well, old man. Whisky sour, and make it strong."
Fred set the glass down and reached for the whiskey, pouring a generous amount into a shaker before adding a splash of sour mix. As he shook the drink, the ice clinking rhythmically, he glanced over at the girl Ren had saved, who was still standing nervously by the table.
"She alright?" Fred asked, his voice a little softer now.
Ren followed Fred's gaze and nodded. "She will be. Just needs to see that not everyone's a piece of shit."
Fred poured the whisky sour into a glass and slid it across the bar to Ren. "You're a good kid, Ren. Just don't go getting yourself killed out there."
Ren took the glass and raised it in a mock toast. "No promises, but I'll do my best." He took a long sip, savoring the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat, then set the glass down with a satisfied sigh. "Perfect, as always."
Fred beamed, clearly pleased with the compliment. "Damn right it is. Now go knock 'em dead, man."
Ren gave Fred a wink, then turned and walked back into the crowd, his drink in one hand. The girl was still standing where he'd left her, looking a little lost in the sea of bodies that filled the bar. Ren reached out and took her hand, her small fingers slipping into his. She looked up at him, surprised, but he just flashed her that easygoing smile of his.
"C'mon," Ren said, pulling her gently through the throng of people. "Let's get you a better view."
As they made their way through the crowd, people parted for Ren, some of them raising their drinks in salute or shouting out his name. It wasn't just respect—there was a genuine love for him in this place. He was their hero, the guy who stood up for the little guy, the guy who made sure the scumbags got what was coming to them.
But not everyone was a fan. As they passed through a particularly rowdy group of girls near the stage, one of them, a heavily made-up blonde with too much eyeliner and a sneer on her lips, looked the girl up and down and scoffed.
"Ew, who the hell is that skank?" she spat, loud enough for everyone around to hear.
Ren felt the girl's hand tighten in his, and he knew the words had hit her hard. But he didn't stop. He didn't even look in the direction of the insult. Instead, he kept walking, his eyes fixed on the stage ahead, his grip firm and reassuring.
"Don't let them get to you," Ren murmured as they reached the edge of the stage. "They're just jealous they're not up here with me."
The girl didn't respond, but she didn't pull away either. Ren led her right up to the stage, then turned and gently guided her to the spot he had in mind.
"And you stand there," he said, placing her directly in front of the stage, the perfect spot to see everything. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low, playful whisper. "Best view in the house."
She looked up at him, her cheeks flushing as she met his eyes. The fear and anxiety from earlier were gone, replaced by something softer, something that melted away under his warm gaze. She managed a small, shy smile, and Ren knew she'd be okay.
Ren winked at her before hopping up onto the stage in one fluid motion. As soon as his boots hit the worn wooden boards, the crowd erupted into cheers, the noise almost drowning out the band's music. The energy in the room shifted, the anticipation building as Ren took his place at the mic stand.
"About damn time!" Jason yelled from across the stage, his bass guitar slung low across his chest. He grinned at Ren, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "What took you so long, Romeo?"
Ren shot him a lopsided grin, adjusting the mic to his height. "Had to save a damsel in distress. You know how it is."
Amy, the band's keyboardist, rolled her eyes but smiled. "Just try not to be a hero every night, okay? We've got a show to do."
Ren laughed, strapping his guitar over his shoulder and giving the strings a quick, practiced strum. The familiar vibration ran through him, grounding him, reminding him of who he was. The cheers from the crowd only fueled the fire building inside him.
Sam, the lead guitarist, leaned over with a smirk. "Let's give 'em something to remember, huh?"
Ren nodded, his heart pounding in time with the bass drum that was starting to build up behind him. He took one last glance at the girl standing just offstage, her eyes wide with excitement, then turned back to the mic.
"This one's for all you rowdy fucks out there." Ren said, his voice smooth and seductive as it echoed through the bar. "Ladies and freakshows, we are "The Strays."
And with that, the band launched into their first song, the raw, powerful sound crashing over the crowd like a wave. Ren's fingers danced over the strings of his guitar, his voice rising above the noise, filled with all the passion and energy he could muster. The crowd surged forward, caught up in the music, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the fight, the insults, the darkness creeping at the edges of his mind.
All that mattered was the music, the stage, and the feeling of being alive, right here, right now.