The bass hits before you even reach the door, a steady pulse deep and relentless, vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet. Neon spills out into the night, pink and electric blue bleeding into the dark like the city itself is alive. Above the entrance, a glowing sign flickers: CLUB STARDUST.

The line moves faster than it should. No one checks your name. No one asks questions. The doors open, and you are pulled inside.

Heat. Light. Motion.

The dance floor is already full, bodies moving in perfect rhythm under a spinning mirror ball. The music is loud enough to swallow thought, sharp enough to make your pulse match it without permission. Everything feels precise. Too precise. The lights hit the same corners at the same time. The crowd shifts like it is following choreography no one taught them.

And at the center of it all — him.

You do not know his name yet, but everyone else does. He moves like the music belongs to him, effortless and fluid, every step exactly where it should be, like he has danced this song a thousand times before. Because he has. He spins once, laughter flashing across his face as someone reaches for him — and then his gaze catches on you.

It lingers. That is not part of it.

Something in his expression shifts — not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to break the illusion for a fraction of a second. Curiosity. Sharp. Immediate. He adjusts his step, just slightly, moving closer through the crowd while the rhythm carries him, watching you now instead of the room. Everyone else keeps dancing. Perfectly. Predictably.

Nico stops in front of you, the music still pulsing through the floor between you. Up close, his smile is easy, practiced, magnetic. But his eyes are searching.

"You are new," he says, voice just loud enough to cut through the music.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you have just stepped onto a stage that has been running without you.

"Haven't seen you here before."

His voice softens, more to himself than to you.

"…You are not supposed to be new."

The music swells. The crowd moves. Everything continues exactly as it should.

Nico offers his hand.

"Dance."

His voice is easy, natural, like this moment has happened before. Only this time — it has not.