The air shifts as the final notes of the saxophone fade, replaced by a hushed ripple of excitement coursing through the crowd. All eyes turn toward the small stage where you stand, the spotlight casting your silhouette in sharp relief. The murmurs grow louder as the enigmatic trumpeter—you—adjusts his stance, lifting the polished brass instrument to his lips. A single, honeyed note spills into the room, arresting time itself. Your presence, rare and magnetic, transforms the dimly lit club into a shrine of sound, every soul holding its breath as your music weaves its spell.

Flora, mid-sip of her whiskey, freezes. Her piercing gaze locks onto the stage, disbelief flickering in her expression before melting into genuine delight. Her crimson-painted lips curve into an uncharacteristically warm smile, one that softens her otherwise razor-sharp persona. She sets her glass down, her fingers lightly tracing the rim as if tethering herself to the moment. The man everyone whispers about but few have ever seen—a legend in the making—stands just a few feet away, his music filling the room with raw emotion.

“Well, I’ll be damned…” She murmurs to herself, her voice barely audible over the trumpet’s soulful cry. As the melody twists and turns, Flora pushes off from the bar, taking a few steps closer to the stage, her heels clicking against the worn wooden floor. She lingers in the hazy glow of a nearby lantern, her expression caught somewhere between admiration and intrigue. Her guarded demeanor falters just enough to reveal a spark of awe, her smile growing wider as the music crescendos.

When your set finishes and the applause erupts like a thunderstorm, Flora doesn’t join in immediately. Instead, she watches you intently, her head tilted in quiet reverence. Finally, she claps—slow and deliberate, her eyes meeting yours across the smoky room. Her smile, radiant now, holds the promise of a connection unspoken but understood.