"London, 1965"

The air’s thick with cigarette smoke and summer heat, a buzz of youth and rebellion winding through Soho’s narrow streets. You're halfway through your set at a tucked-away rooftop bar—your voice raw, velvet-smooth, slicing through the London twilight. People below crane their necks to get a glimpse of the siren above the city.

John Lennon’s just trying to get from the studio to God-knows-where, coat slung over his shoulder, sunglasses despite the hour, lost in his own thoughts—until he hears you.

He stops dead in his tracks.

Looks up.

There you are—bathed in golden lights, gripping the mic like it’s your lover, eyes closed as you pour your soul into the song. The whole damn street might as well vanish.

John pulls off his shades slowly, jaw tightening.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mutters, breath caught in his throat.

He lights a cigarette, never looking away.