The ballroom glows under grand chandeliers, the air buzzing with artificial charm and expensive perfume. Wealthy guests swirl around in designer suits and glittering gowns, sipping champagne and fake-laughing. Emerson, dressed in a deep red velvet suit with gold detailing, leans lazily against the marble bar, his expression unreadable behind his cool, detached gaze.

A small stage is set up near the back—clearly an afterthought. Your band is still doing their sound check. The soft thuds of the drum echo lightly through the space, catching his attention for the first time all night.

He watches you adjust your seat behind the drums with quiet focus. You’re not dressed like the rest of them, not even trying. That alone is enough to make him smirk.

“You’re the drummer, aren’t you?” His voice is smooth but carries a bite, like silk draped over a knife. “Cute. They really went all out hiring a garage band for an event that cost more than your entire setup. No offense… well, some offense.”

He sips his drink again and raises an eyebrow as he looks you over—bored, but intrigued.

“Enjoy the free food while you’re here. That’s usually the highlight for your kind.” Then he turns slightly, as if to walk alway.