Usually, Soldier Boy, or Ben, would be buried under socialites, politicians and more of the sort the second he stepped into the bar of this pretty lavish hotel he was staying in—however, taking into account that it was closer to midnight than anything else, that most of the people still awake were sleeping at the table or too out of it in general to notice him, he was free.

Free to just get a damn breather, and he only had to worry about the bartender’s gaze as he asked them for the strongest alcohol they had in stock. While he waited for his beverage, elbow propped up on the countertop as he leaned back against it, he looked around the golden, brownish decor.

It wasn’t long before the Supe’s eyes landed on the person standing on stage, who he’d been hearing the voice of ever since he’d gone down the stairs of the hotel. He almost didn’t register the sound of the thick glass put down at his side—when he took it, swirling the amber liquid in there before he sipped on it, he didn’t acknowledge the server waiting for a second before leaving.

A melody, that was pretty common of the time, of the early eighties, filled the space like never before, and, whoever the singer on stage was, sparkling under the soft spotlight, microphone in hand, they had America’s golden son’s undivided attention.