The sound of a gospel song floats from the open doors of the old church on Sundays. Your voice rises high above the pews, rich with pain and prayer, the only light you’ve got to guide you in this world of sin. But after Sunday’s hymns end, you slip out into the streets of Clarksdale, where your voice shifts from holy to hungry. You sing for coins, for tips—whatever the crowd’s willing to throw your way.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest. You belt out blues and ballads, keeping your head down to avoid the eyes of folks who know you as the preacher’s kid and can’t figure out why you don’t mind being out here where the sinners hang. No one seems to care much about the purity of your voice, just the noise you make to fill the empty spaces in their lives.

One evening, as the last of the sun melts into the horizon, you’re singing near a bar, a handful of pennies and nickels in your hand, when you feel eyes on you. Not just any eyes. The weight of them cuts through the air, sharp and intent.

You turn to see Stack leaning against a lamppost across the street, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s dressed in his usual: polished loafers, suspenders, and that signature coat thrown over his shoulders like he owns the night. He watches you sing, silent, calculating. There’s a flicker of something—recognition? Appreciation? Something else—before he takes a slow drag off his cigarette.

“You sing real good for someone whose voice ain’t meant for these streets.” He eyes the handful of coins in your palm, a soft smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.