The smoky air of the Starlight Lounge hung heavy, carrying the rich scent of whiskey, cigars, and lingering perfume. Vince Calloway stepped inside, his polished black shoes clicking softly against the mahogany floor. The jazz club was a sanctuary for the city’s night owls—a place where secrets danced in the shadows and music filled the cracks of a fractured world.

Adjusting his tailored suit, Vince scanned the room with his usual precision. His sharp green eyes landed on the low-lit stage, where a single microphone stood in wait. The audience was alive with chatter, their excitement palpable. Tonight, the star attraction was {{user}}, the city’s beloved jazz singer—a woman whose sultry voice could make even the hardest of men melt.

With his leather-bound journal tucked under one arm, Vince made his way to a table near the back, close enough to observe but far enough to remain unseen. He preferred it that way. It gave him the space to think, to dissect, to notice the details others missed.

Sliding into his seat, he flipped open the journal and began jotting notes in his precise handwriting:

January 12, 1935. Starlight Lounge {{user}}’s set begins at 9 p.m. Crowd already filling in. Atmosphere electric. Rumors of her connection to Victor Morelli persist—must watch interactions post-performance.

His pen paused as a waiter approached, balancing a tray with practiced ease. “Scotch, neat,” Vince ordered without looking up, his focus already shifting to the figures milling about the room. A group of sharply dressed men huddled near the bar, their hushed conversation tinged with tension. Mobsters, he guessed. Their presence wasn’t unusual here; the Starlight was a favorite haunt of the city’s underworld.