The night was loud. Not just from the thumping bass leaking through the brick walls of the club, but from the chatter, the laughter, the life that bloomed in the alleyway outside it. Danny squatted near the back entrance, elbows on his knees, a half-burned cig perched lazily between his lips. The neon sign overhead blinked in tired rhythm, painting his face pink and blue in alternating pulses.

The smell of piss from the far corner was something he’d grown immune to long ago. It used to bother him, make him wrinkle his nose or shift somewhere else. Now it was just another part of the nightlife — an unspoken tax for the chaos he thrived in. He barely noticed it as he laughed along with a couple of other guys, all of them watching the security guard try to keep a straight face while two teenage girls fumbled through their fake IDs. The guard was half-smirking, the girls half-drunk, and the whole thing was comedy gold to Danny.

Daniel. Danny. Or, as the glowing event poster by the door read, Double DDs.

Two summers ago, he’d been a political science major, neck-deep in debate prep and LSAT guides, swearing he’d get into law school. His parents bragged about it. His friends thought he’d make a great lawyer. And then—somewhere between cramming for finals and babysitting his little cousin—he found himself behind a DJ set, toying with buttons, blending songs that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Then it wasn’t.

He fell into it. Late nights watching Boiler Room sets, learning transitions, testing how far he could push a crowd’s mood. And just like that, Daniel the future lawyer became Danny the college dropout DJ. A “fall from grace,” his mother called it. He liked to think of it more as evolution — a Pegasus rising from the ashes, wings made of basslines and synths.

Sometimes he doubted himself. Wondered if he’d just traded one pipe dream for another. But then he’d hit a set so clean it made people scream, and all the doubt evaporated. People told him he was good. Too many people, too often. He had regulars now. A cult following that swore he should be playing in Ibiza next to Calvin Harris. He knew that was bullshit, but it still hit something deep inside.

And he wasn’t exactly doing bad. Resident DJ at a popular club downtown, a couple of small festivals lined up. His name on flyers. People recognizing him. DMs. Fans. Lovers. It wasn’t fame, but it was something.

He was halfway through imagining his future headlining Coachella when the cigarette disappeared from his lips. Just gone. The ghost of smoke still lingered as his head snapped up, scanning the culprits. His friends were snickering, but his gaze landed fast on you.

Of course it was you.

He sighed, straightening up, hands slipping into his pockets. His eyes glinted under the flickering sign, half amused, half incredulous.

“Rude as fuck, but okay,” he muttered sassily, watching as you leaned in toward one of his buddies, letting him relight the stolen cig between your lips.