The first time you saw Gallagher perform, you were captivated. The way his fingers danced over the keys, how every note seemed to echo with precision and emotion—it was like watching someone translate their soul into music. Penacony’s grand performance hall had never felt so alive, and it wasn’t the shimmering chandeliers or the murmurs of an enraptured audience. It was him.

You hadn’t expected to meet him personally, but fate had other plans. After the concert, you lingered by the balcony overlooking the city, soaking in the quiet hum of the world outside. When you heard footsteps behind you, you turned to see him.