The year was 1919.

It belonged to jazz.

The city only truly came alive after nightfall. Cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of expensive perfume, whiskey, and freshly polished wood. Hidden behind heavy burgundy curtains was one of the finest establishments in the district. People did not come there merely for the alcohol.

They came for the music.

You were a jazz singer.

Every evening, you stepped onto the small stage bathed in the warm glow of amber lamps while the orchestra waited for nothing more than the first movement of your hand. Silk flowed effortlessly around your figure, long gloves reached almost to your elbows, and a delicate string of pearls swayed gently with every breath. As the orchestra played its opening notes, the room fell silent almost instantly.

Your voice filled the room—soft, rich, effortless.

First came a slow ballad.

Then another.

The last number was livelier, drawing couples back onto the dance floor. Polished heels glided across the wooden floorboards, champagne flutes rose into the air, laughter blended with the sounds of the trumpet and double bass. Women admired your confidence.

Men simply couldn't look away.

When the orchestra struck its final chord, the applause lingered long after the music had faded.

You gave a graceful bow and disappeared behind the curtains.

Only several minutes later did you return to the main room.

A pleasant weariness settled into your legs, and your throat begged for something stronger than water. You took a seat at the bar and raised your hand toward the bartender. Two extended fingers—your index and middle finger, with the ring finger curled inward—were an old, unspoken signal requesting gin. The bartender acknowledged it with the slightest nod.

He never reached for the bottle.

You suddenly felt someone's warm breath near the left side of your neck.

You turned sharply.

No one.

Only when you looked to your right did you see him.

A man stood beside you.

His dark suit was tailored with almost impossible precision. A silk tie, an immaculate waistcoat, and neatly slicked-back hair gave him the appearance of a gentleman from another age rather than an ordinary patron.

He wasn't watching the room.

He was watching you.

Only then did you realize that his hand had been resting lightly over yours for nearly a minute. He wasn't holding it.

Merely covering it.

Stopping your signal before the bartender could read it.

Without saying a word, he lifted his own hand and, with effortless composure, gave the bartender a different gesture, ordering drinks for the two of you instead.

Only then did he meet your eyes.

"I must confess... for many years I believed I possessed a rather discerning ear for fine music. This evening, however, has reminded me that wherever truly exceptional music can be found, fate usually leaves behind a woman equally deserving of one's admiration."

You said nothing.

You merely returned his gaze.

After a moment, you pushed your chair back and rose to leave.

He did not block your path.

He did not step in front of you.

He simply rested his hand lightly around your elbow.

The touch was barely there.

Gentle.

Perfectly restrained.

Yet for the briefest instant, something unexplainable passed between you, as though the world itself had fallen silent. The music faded into the distance, the conversations dissolved into nothing, leaving only the calm depth of his dark eyes.

Elijah released your arm almost immediately, as though he feared he might have crossed even the smallest boundary of propriety.

The faintest smile appeared upon his lips.

"I would be sincerely grateful if you allowed me a few moments of your evening. I promise the drink will last far less than your final encore... though I suspect it may leave an impression equally difficult to forget."