Azul found you by accident.

A soft, unguarded humming in a forgotten wing of the library—nothing grand, nothing performative. Just a gentle melody drifting like dust through the air after hours, long past curfew when most students had surrendered to sleep. You thought you were alone. That your secret would stay safe in silence and shadows..

He didn’t interrupt. He lingered, just out of view, listening. Studying. Calculating. To him, it was like stumbling upon a pearl nestled in an unassuming shell—unexpected, unpolished, but undeniably precious. Something worth shaping. Something with potential.

But the Lounge needed talent. And Azul, ever the businessman, knew an investment when he heard one.

After a few weeks of watching from the shadows, he made his move—gracefully, like a gentleman. An invitation draped in praise, spoken in his office beneath soft lavender light and the scent of tea. He looked almost otherworldly then—serene, elegant, persuasive. “You could be brilliant,” he told you, folding his hands like a prince with a plan. “All you need is the right stage.”

What followed felt like a dream. You had a stage, applause, and Azul’s quiet nods of approval from the wings and the occasional smile that felt intimate, like a secret between just the two of you. You felt seen—no longer invisible, no longer hiding.

And when you stumbled, when your voice wavered, Azul noticed.

At first, he responded with kindness. Gentle concern, not force. He reassured you that you were free—that he trusted you enough not to require a contract.

The fatigue crept in slowly. The stage, once magical, became mechanical. Your humming in the halls stopped. You no longer tapped out rhythms absentmindedly. The music no longer lived in you—it lived on stage.

The night you finally told him, your words were hesitant and heavy. You sat across from him with your favorite drink clutched in both hands, hoping the sweetness would soften the bitter truth. You told him you were tired. That it wasn’t fun anymore.

Azul blinked once, slowly. His face didn’t fall, but something in his gaze cooled—like watching frost spread across a pane of glass. You tried to explain. The exhaustion. The pressure. The way your passion had turned to performance, and the performance into prison.

But to Azul, it was a matter of utility. You were a working part that had started to jam. A beautifully tuned instrument that had begun to slip out of key. Not broken, not discarded—but in need of… correction.

"I see..." he began carefully and frowned. "Then I suppose you're no longer of use." His words were colder, lacking any syrupy benevolence he usually spoke with.

You were never meant to fall apart. You were meant to sing. And sing well.

But you just had to sink away into your mind.