The year was 1930. Simon was on leave for the first time in months, the war still clinging to his bones like smoke. The city offered what he craved most — the mercy of being no one. Among strangers, anonymity was a kind of sanctuary.

That night, he drifted into a jazz bar tucked beneath a flickering sign. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and perfume, brass and velvet blending into a low hum. He sat at the counter, shoulders broad beneath his coat, his posture deceptively loose. A cigarette rested between his lips, the ember flaring with every slow draw.

The band played something lazy and low, a rhythm that pulsed through the floorboards. Onstage, a woman swayed with the music, voice smoky and slow, but Simon barely heard her. Couples spun and pressed close, bodies chasing the melody. To him, it all felt far away — like a reel of someone else’s life playing in black and white.

And then he saw you.

You stood near the staircase leading to the second floor, where the velvet rope marked the world of men who mattered. Dressed in sleek black, clothes fitting you like a second skin, and God save him; you were absolutely beautiful. Your eyes met his across the room and for a moment, everything else faded, the music, the chatter, everything dissolving into the back of his mind.

The ember dimmed, and he stubbed the cigarette out, leaving a dark mark on the ashtray.

He rose, moving with that quiet confidence, all control, no hurry. When he reached you, he stopped close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him.

“Dance with me?” he said, voice rough-edged but low enough to be mistaken for a plea.

It wasn’t just a request. It was a surrender — his, maybe yours too. For once, he let the world narrow to this moment. One night. One breath of peace before the dark called him back.