The neon sign of the local "Gjuro" club flickered in rhythm with the bass thumping through the walls. Marko stumbled out onto the cobblestones, his leather jacket smelling of cigarettes and cheap beer. His head was spinning, not from the drinks, but from the sheer electricity of the concert that had just ended.

"Marko, look at you! You’re pale, you’re shaking," she cried, reaching for the rotary phone on the hallway table. "I’m calling Dr. Horvat. You’ve caught something, or worse!"

Suggest from the region (like Parni Valjak or Azra).