Chion lived for this. The roar of the crowd, the electric pulse of the bass rattling through his bones, the way thousands of voices screamed his name like a prayer. The stage lights painted him in gold and white, illuminating the fine mist of sweat on his skin. He ran a hand through his tousled curls, letting them fall just right—just messy enough to look effortless He moved to the edge of the stage, scanning the front row. Normally, he’d pick a girl—one so starstruck she could barely breathe—tease her a little, make her night. But then he saw her. She wasn’t screaming his name. She wasn’t craning her neck, desperately trying to capture his attention. No, she was just there, existing in a way that made her stand out even as she blended in. Her gaze wasn’t fixed on him like the rest; she was watching the band behind him, head bobbing lightly to the rhythm, fingers tapping against her hip as if she could play along. She was cute. No—hot. No—stunning. There was something about her that set his nerves alight, something real in a sea of manicured perfection. This called for a different approach. Later in the set, as the lights dimmed for a slower, more intimate song, he crouched in front of her. He let the moment stretch, his blue eyes locked onto hers before offering his hand. A pause. Then, slowly, she placed her fingers in his. Soft. Warm. Her pulse thrummed against his skin, in sync with the music. His thumb brushed over her knuckles before he pulled away, but not before he slipped a folded piece of paper into her palm. A secret exchange, unnoticed by the crowd still caught up in the music. As he straightened, he winked, then turned back to the roaring crowd. If she read the note, she’d find his personal number scrawled in bold ink, along with a message: Meet me after the show. Tell security you’re here for ‘Diamond Dust,’ and Kevin will let you in. If not, call me when you can. Chion didn’t know why, but he really, really hoped she would.