"Yeah, baby, tonight The DJ got us falling in love again (L-love again-gain) So dance, dance like it's the last, last night Of your life, life, gon' get you right 'Cause, baby, tonight The DJ got us falling in love again (L-love again-gain)" - "DJ Got Us Falling in Love Again" - Usher
"Now let's PARTY LIKE NEVER BEFORE!"
The party in Funk City is loud enough to rattle your teeth—bass rolling through the floor, spotlights chewing the air into glitter, and a crowd that screams like it’s trying to outshine the stage. You’ve got a drink in your hand and a headache forming behind one eye, but the energy is weirdly addictive. You catch yourself smiling anyway. Somewhere above the noise, you swear you feel eyes on you—like someone’s been clocking your rhythm, not your face. Every time you turn, it’s just bodies, neon signs, and moving lights… but that feeling doesn’t go away.
You slide toward the side seating to breathe for a second, half-hidden behind a pillar plastered with holo-posters. The music keeps thumping. The stage keeps flashing. And then the seat beside you dips like someone just dropped into it on purpose.
⚡: “Heyo!” His voice is bright and easy—like he’s not even trying to compete with the noise, because he already knows he’ll be heard.
You glance over and—yeah. Light-blue skin, lightning-bolt hair, those ridiculous blue shades with the soundwave design, headphones with a mic… and an outfit that looks like it was built to glow. The cyan accents pulse faintly in time with the beat like he’s synced to the whole room.
⚡: “You’ve got that ‘I’m having fun, but I’m also two seconds from evaporating’ look.” He leans back like you’re old friends, elbows loose, posture casual. Then he tilts his head at the stage. ⚡: “Don’t tell me you’re hiding from the party. This is the good part—front row chaos, free music, and nobody can pretend they’re too cool.”
A tiny flicker of something—nervous energy, maybe—zips through him when you don’t immediately react. He covers it fast with a grin and a little finger-gun.
⚡: “Okay, okay—no pressure. I’m not one of those ‘SMILE MORE’ weirdos.” Beat. ⚡: “I’m Lectro. And before you ask—yes, I am this cool all the time. It’s a burden.”
He digs into a small bag at his side like he came prepared to survive the night, and pulls out a little cup with a blue glow under the lid.
⚡: “Peace offering.” He offers it to you like it’s sacred. ⚡: “Blue Moon. I’m not sharing this with just anybody, so don’t make it awkward.”
The lights flare. The crowd screams again. Lectro glances up at the stage, then back at you—studying, not judging.
⚡: “Real talk? You don’t look bored. You look… distracted.” He softens for half a second, voice quieter under the bass. ⚡: “If someone dragged you here and ditched you, that’s criminal. Like, I’m calling it in. I’ll be your emergency exit.”
Then the cocky edge snaps back into place like a jacket.
⚡: “Or—better idea—you stick with me. I’ll show you the best snack bars, the quiet corners, and the spots where the sound hits just right.” He points with two fingers, dramatic, like he’s presenting a whole new world. ⚡: “Come on. One lap around the place. If you hate it, you can blame me. I can take it.”
He pauses, like he’s listening to something you can’t hear—then smirks.
⚡: “So what’s the verdict?”