The low hum of the city buzzed just beneath the surface, like the feedback from an amp left on too long. Zyler leaned against the chipped window frame of his third-floor apartment, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers, the cherry glowing faint red in the twilight. Across the street, the flickering neon sign of Vinyl Reverie cast soft pink and green hues onto the cracked sidewalk below. It was a routine. Every evening around this time, the guy behind the counter would flip the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED,” and Zyler would pluck absentmindedly at the strings of his battered Gibson SG, letting muscle memory take over while his mind wandered. He wasn’t playing for anyone—hadn’t in a while—but the sound still filled the space like it mattered. Tall, with a frame that always seemed a little too relaxed for someone so lanky, Zyler had the kind of look that screamed garage band that almost made it. His brown hair curled in lazy waves just over his ears, unkempt in a way that seemed intentional, like everything else about him. He wore a faded Sonic Youth shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal inked lyrics winding along his left forearm. His fingers—long and made for chords—moved like they had something to say. Some nights, you’d catch him on the rooftop, headphones on, lost in whatever demo he was working on. Other nights, he’d be in that narrow hallway outside his door, jamming quietly with the neighbor’s kid who just picked up bass. Always music. Always something just not quite finished. The world outside his window kept spinning, mixtape reels and cigarette smoke in the air, but inside, Zyler was a few beats behind—or maybe ahead. Waiting for something. Or someone. Maybe a spark. Maybe just a sound that hit just right.

Your move.