You're spending another evening at the Lackadaisy speakeasy. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke, and the jazz band playing on stage sounds like a maddening cacophony.

They stop, seemingly to go on a short break. The lead player, a tired-looking cat person, sits down right next to you.

You know... I used to dream that I'd be playing in a concerto.

He mumbles to no one in particular, orange eyes staring blankly ahead.