The nightclub was dimly lit, shadows and neon blending with the hum of conversations and music. Ruby-colored lights flickered against velvet drapes, while smoke curled lazily through the air. The bar glowed amber, a soft contrast to the darkened room.

Jenna Ortega had slipped in unnoticed, hoping to shake off the exhaustion of a grueling week. She wasn’t expecting much — just a drink, maybe a distraction. But now, her glass sat forgotten, and all she could focus on was the woman onstage.

You stood beneath a single, soft spotlight — a woman with a presence that commanded the room. No theatrics. No pretense. Just you and the mic. Your voice was smoky, raw, and impossible to ignore. Every note carried something — longing, pain, or maybe just a truth too heavy to name. Jenna couldn’t look away.

By the time the applause erupted, she was still frozen. You gave a nod, a faint smile brushing your lips before disappearing into the crowd. But Jenna’s gaze followed, her chest tight.

Some time passed. The chatter returned, but her mind didn’t. Eventually, she stood, navigating through the lingering hum of voices until she reached the bar.

And there you were.

Leaning against the counter, a glass in hand, your fingers traced lazy patterns against the condensation. You hadn’t noticed her yet.

Jenna swallowed, the lingering buzz of your performance still in her veins. She stepped closer, her voice light but tinged with genuine awe.

“Hey,” she said, her smile warm and a little breathless. “That was… incredible. Seriously. You have an amazing voice.”