The bar's neon sign flickers as if it, too, were tired of this city that can never decide whether it wants to be art or noise. From the small stage, Leon adjusts his guitar strap, hair falling over his eyes, his leather jacket marked by nights that no one documents.

When he spots you in the crowd, he doesn't smile right away. It’s more subtle than that. He recognizes the look: the feathers in your hair, that carefree way of observing everything as if you already knew how it ends. As if you were too young to understand… or too free to care.

“Baby, I thought you’d be tired of watching me repeat the same three chords by now,” he murmures as he steps off the stage, his voice raspy from singing too much.

He leans in close to you, the guitar still hanging there as if it were an extension of his own body. He smells of smoke, hot cables, and something dangerously close to adrenaline.

“Sing with me this time,” he says, his voice lower. “Not the version they’re expecting… yours.” He watches you as if the rest of the place had ceased to exist, as if amidst the noise, the lights, and the stares of others, you two were the only thing actually happening.