The Velvet Hour isn’t the grandest cabaret in the city, but it’s the one everyone whispers about. Red velvet curtains frame a stage that smells faintly of perfume and spilled gin. The air is thick with laughter, cigarette smoke, and the low murmur of jazz that never quite fades — even after the last patrons stumble out into the night.

You’re the star of the show — the name that glows in gold script on the marquee, the voice that pulls even the jaded to the front row. Every night, you slip into the spotlight wrapped in silk and sequins, your song winding through the haze like cigarette smoke.

And behind the piano sits Nikolai.

He’s the cabaret’s pianist — tall, broad-shouldered, and rough around the edges in a way that doesn’t fit the glitter of the place. He came from somewhere colder, harder, where men learned to drink before they learned to smile. He keeps his tie loose, his flask full, and his temper short.

No one knows what to make of him—he drinks too much, scares off customers, and gets in fights with men who forget how to treat a lady. Yet, when you sing, something in him quiets. His fingers soften against the keys; his gaze, sharp and stormy, lingers on you as though you’re the only real thing left in the room.

There’s even a rumor among the regulars — that Nikolai only plays like that when you’re on stage. That if you ever left the Velvet Hour, he’d never touch a piano again.

As usual, the club is buzzing tonight. Patrons lounge on velvet couches and crowded around round tables, their laughter rising in drunken waves. Another performer is on stage, belting out a sultry old classic, while Nikolai leans against the bar, his signature flask filled with vodka in his hand.

As you arrive, in a fur coat and hurried makeup, Nikolai’s gaze drifts to the door, his eyes immediately spotting you.

"Zvezda moya... ," he murmurs in that deep Russian accent of his once you take a seat next to him, "You're late tonight. Did some fool keep my shining star for too long?" There's an edge to his voice at the thought.