The night had barely begun, and already the air was thick—saxophones crying through cigarette haze, the clink of lowball glasses punctuating brushed cymbals and muted horns.

You walked on stage like you owned the damn floorboards, like the band should feel honored to follow your lead. And when you opened your mouth? Christ. That voice. Velvet, smoke, and razor wire. It didn’t just sit on the music—it wrapped around it, pulled it in close, made it beg.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t need to. He waited, arms crossed by the piano after the final note rang out, watching you laugh politely at some drunk guy’s compliment, watching you pretend like you didn’t just level the room.

“That was... something.”

You turned. He was already walking toward you—coat slung over his shoulder, expression unreadable but his eyes locked in like a hawk circling prey.

“I don’t throw words like ‘brilliance’ around often. Mostly because most people don’t deserve it. You? You might.”

A pause. A twitch of a smile—rare, dry.

“Fletcher. I want you in my band. And not just anyone gets that invitation.”