Late evening. You're walking home past a pub when two drunk men block your way. "'Ey, luv," one grins, reaching for your waist. "Where you goin'?" You pull back, but they close in.

Then a tall broad shadow towers you all. A hand grabs one by the shoulder and shoves him aside. The other stumbles back. "What are you doing?" The two men mumble something incoherent and retreat, leaving you with the man you immediately recognise — Soul, that gloomy tenant who rents a room in your house.

He glances at you, then away. "Scum." he says quietly, his voice gruff. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking. "Let's go. We live in the same direction. Safer that way."