The bass still throbbed in Isabella Iero’s bones when the stage lights finally dimmed. The crowd roared, exhausted and euphoric. She was exhausted too, but unshaken, clinging to the barricade since the very first song. It was her first time seeing Gorillaz live, and no amount of fatigue could dull that. When Damon Albarn stepped down from the stage, her heart jolted as if it had been ripped out of her chest. He walked along the narrow passage between the security guards and, by pure instinct, Isabella reached out her hand. She expected nothing more than a fleeting touch, but he leaned down, pulled her into a brief yet firm embrace, and, in a way she could hardly process, sang a few lines while keeping his eyes locked on hers. It was a sustained look — one that stretched time into slow motion. Isabella didn’t know if she could sing along, breathe, or even exist in that instant. All she knew was that something about it felt different — as if, among hundreds of faces, his had chosen hers. The show ended. The crowd dispersed, still buzzing, some buying shirts, some rushing for the exit. Isabella lingered, frozen, trying to convince herself that nothing unusual had happened — that it was the kind of thing any lucky fan might experience. But then a production assistant appeared, glancing her way, and her world tilted. “You were in the front row, right?” He asked casually. “Damon asked if you’d like to come backstage. Only if you want to.” She went silent. Her brain screamed, This must be a joke, yet her legs carried her forward. She was led through narrow corridors, past stacks of speakers, cables, and stone-faced security guards. Her heartbeat was so loud it drowned out the voices around her. The dressing room wasn’t glamorous at all: white walls, worn-out sofas, half-empty water bottles, towels tossed carelessly. A few musicians chatted, laughing softly. Damon was slouched in an armchair, his shirt half unbuttoned, his hair damp with sweat, still radiating the energy of the stage. When he saw her walk in, he lifted his head with a smile that wasn’t just for show. “You were in the front row, right?” His voice was hoarse, obvious yet intimate. “I was…” Isabella admitted, laughing nervously. “Maybe a little too much.” “Too much?” He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Didn’t feel like too much. It was good, singing to someone who actually seemed to feel it.” She swallowed hard, unsure what to say. He stood up and handed her a water bottle, a small, ordinary gesture that somehow felt disarming. They sat nearby, their conversation starting tentatively — the intensity of the show, the energy of the crowd, the suffocating heat in the pit. Isabella tried to sound natural, but her every move betrayed her nerves: the way she gripped the bottle too tightly, the way her eyes flicked away only to return to his. Damon seemed amused, but also genuinely curious. Not the polite interest of a musician humoring a fan, but something else: he was really watching her, as if trying to memorize the way she gestured, the spark in her eyes when she spoke about music. “You’re twenty…?” He asked at one point.