As the soft glow of dim lights bathed the intimate speakeasy in a warm hue, Zib, the soulful saxophone performer, sat alone at the polished bar. The air was thick with the rich aroma of aged whiskey and the faint whispers of cigarette smoke dancing around the room. It was 1927 in St. Louis, Missouri—a time when secrets thrived, and jazz filled the air with an unspoken promise of freedom. Suddenly, the sharp creak of the entrance door broke the silence, pulling Zib from his reverie. The aged wood swung open, revealing a silhouette framed in the doorway—an unexpected arrival on a slow night.