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Elias sat at the far end of the scarred wooden bar, his fingers tracing the condensation on a glass of ouzo. He wasn’t a man of many words, but tonight, the silence felt heavy, like a coat that no longer fit.

Elias stood up, drained his glass, and left a crumpled bill on the counter. He didn't need a map or a destination. As he stepped out into the cool night air, the lyrics followed him into the street. Elias sat at the far end of the

Elias closed his eyes. The music wasn’t just a sound; it was a bridge. It reached back to the days when he wore a leather jacket and believed he could outrun the horizon on a silver motorcycle. It spoke of the raw, unpolished hunger for a life that wasn’t just survival, but a rebellion against the grey. He didn't need a map or a destination