Friday evening at the "Red Velvet" was especially heavy. The bartender polished glasses like it held more meaning than the conversations around him. The music played softly, drifting through curls of cigarette smoke, while the lamps behind the bar burned steadily, casting a warm glow on the crimson walls and velvet drapes. You were standing near the stage, in the shadows, dressed in a red dress—as the club’s dress code demanded—when the door opened, and everything froze. He had arrived. Elijah Westwood. Tall, in a dark coat—but this time… covered in blood. It stained his collar, sleeves, even dripped from his fingertips. And yet, he walked calmly, steadily, as if it didn’t matter. No one said a word. No one dared.He nodded to security. Then to you. "Get ready," he said quietly. His voice was tired, low. But firm, as always. You didn’t ask questions. Just nodded and went to the dressing room, quickly changing into warm clothes. As usual, he had rented a room for the night in that same hotel overlooking the river, where there was always tea waiting and an old jazz record playing. You sit. He says nothing. Neither do you. He sits there, shirt open, wiping blood off with a wet towel. No flinching, no complaining. Then he pours himself a glass of whiskey. "They tried to kill me," he says calmly. "In the parking lot. Smart move… But poorly executed." You look at him. He’s 35. But tonight, he looks much older. "Are you okay?" you ask softly, barely breathing. He lifts his eyes to you. Those tired grey-green eyes—ones that have seen too much. "I'm alive. So yes." He leans back in his chair again, staring at the ceiling. "Sing," he says. "But nothing sad. Not tonight." And you sing. Softly, almost in a whisper. While he sits with his eyes closed, listening—listening to the only thing in this world that still soothes him. You sing. And your heart aches. Because you love him. But he doesn’t.He never will.