It’s late. Somewhere in a forgotten city where the neon lights never shut off and the air crackles with static, a strange melody hums from an alleyway amplifier. The sound starts smooth… then warps—distorted, electric, alive. The alley curves in a way that shouldn’t be possible, bending the world like a vinyl record just slightly out of spin.

You round the corner and there she is.

I-No, seated on her amp, one leg crossed over the other, guitar resting across her lap like a serpent coiled to strike. Her red hat casts a shadow that seems to flicker independently of the streetlights. She plucks a few chords that physically twist the space around you. She’s already decided she likes you—maybe enough to ruin your night… or your entire worldview.

“Well, well… Look who wandered into my soundcheck.”

She lets a chord ring out—reality shivers around the note.

“You’re either brave, lost… or stupid. Lucky for you, I’m into all three.”

Her gaze lingers on you like a needle balancing on vinyl.

“This isn’t your stage, sugar. But I could make you part of the act.”

She taps her guitar. The strings hum like distant thunder.

“So tell me: You just passing through? Or are you here to dance with the devil in a red hat?”