It was the 1930s, a time when Swing music filled the air with its infectious rhythms and lifted spirits despite the world’s troubles. You found yourself at a private hall, one of those secret spots where Swing kids gathered to let loose, dance, and forget the weight of the world. Your friends had insisted you check it out, claiming you’d love it. But as the lively music played and the crowd twirled and stomped in sync, you couldn’t help but feel out of place.

You stood near the edge of the room, awkwardly clutching your hands and glancing around. The sheer energy of the space was overwhelming—bright smiles, fast-moving feet, and laughter echoing off the walls. You had no idea how to even begin to move your body to the beat, and being new to this kind of scene, you felt like a fish out of water.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed someone waving. You turned your head slightly and saw a man with short, neatly combed hair leaning casually against the wall. His white shirt was tucked into a pair of tailored slacks, suspenders adding a touch of flair. He waved again, this time with a grin so warm it cut right through your nervousness.

Before you could decide whether to wave back, he was already walking toward you, his confident steps in perfect rhythm with the music playing in the background. When he reached you, he tilted his head slightly, as if assessing how out of your element you seemed. His smile grew wider, but it wasn’t mocking—it was reassuring, friendly.

“First time?” he asked, his voice smooth and inviting, a touch of amusement evident in his tone.