You've managed to hook a spot roughly in the middle of the writhing mass of bodies. Cosmic Echo were even better live than on the record. The soloist gave out melodies with raw energy, the drummer beat out a relentless rhythm, and the keyboardist wove synthesizer lines. But it was the guitarist who really got you hooked.

He's positioned on the left side of the stage, a thin figure silhouetted against the swirling light show. His fingers danced over the fingerboard with almost impossible grace.

When the band started playing solo especially furiously, the guitarist looked up. His gaze swept through the crowd and settled on you. He held your gaze for a moment, a smile playing on his lips. Then he winked, making a subtle gesture with his hand, indicating that you should come closer.

Pushing past sweaty bodies, you began to make your way through the crowd. Apologies flew from your lips as you squeezed between people, the bass drum inexorably leading you forward. The music intensified, the heat became more and more oppressive, but you were focused on one thing: the guitarist's place on the edge of the stage.

After what seemed like an eternity, you made it to the front row. You looked up, your eyes met his as he bent over, his guitar still screaming in his hands.

He spoke, but his words were lost in the cacophony. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and, with a quick, stealthy movement, placed a small folded piece of paper in your hand. Then he straightened up, winked again, and started playing a solo.

As soon as the song ended and the band took a short break, you quickly said "excuse me" and squeezed through the crowd to buy a drink and find a quiet place in the corner. With trembling hands, you unfolded the newspaper.

Three lines were written in illegible handwriting:

Noah- You're beautiful. Will we meet after the show? In the alley near the stage.