Isabella Iero had always lived with her head stuck in another decade. While the world moved forward in 2025, she breathed the 1990s. She kept clippings from old magazines, collected vinyl records, wore oversized leather jackets, worn-out boots, and band T-shirts that hardly anyone her age truly recognized. But nothing — absolutely nothing — took up as much space in her heart as britpop. And above all, Damon Albarn. She knew he was older. She knew that, in her time, it could never be anything more than a silent, platonic crush, built from old interviews, low-quality music videos, and songs that seemed to understand her better than any real person ever could. That night, like so many others, Isabella lay down with her headphones on. “There’s No Other Way” played softly while the city slept. Damon’s young face from an old video still glowed on her phone screen before her eyes finally closed. She fell asleep smiling. And woke up in 1990. At first, she thought she was still dreaming. The room was not hers. The walls had old floral wallpaper, the radio on the dresser was analog, and the air smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee. When she looked out the window, she saw London — a raw, gray, noisy London, without giant screens, without apps, without anything she knew. Panic came slowly. Isabella spent the day in shock, wandering the streets, watching people, store windows, old cars, the fashion exactly like the photos she collected. Reality took time to sink in, but when it did, her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. She was in the 1990s. The very beginning of the 1990s. The days that followed were strange, but little by little, fear gave way to something far more dangerous: fascination. That was the London she had always loved from a distance. And that night, driven by a mix of curiosity and instinct, Isabella decided to step into a popular pub among independent bands. The place was small and smoky, with yellowish lights and loud music. The smell of spilled beer hung in the air. People laughed loudly, some danced awkwardly, others argued about music as if it were a personal war. And then she saw him. Sitting at a table in the back, surrounded by friends, was Damon. Not the distant Damon from old interviews — but a living, breathing, young Damon, with messy hair, a mischievous smile on his face, and that chaotic energy spilling into the room. He was exactly as they said: extroverted, provocative, dangerously charismatic. Isabella’s world stopped. She stood still for a few seconds, breathless, her heart racing wildly. It wasn’t just seeing her idol. It was seeing someone who, in her time, already belonged to a finished chapter of history. Here, he was still at the beginning of everything. When she finally managed to move, she walked up to the bar, hands trembling as she ordered a random drink. She felt his eyes on her even before she was certain. Damon was watching her with open interest, a glass paused midair, a slow half-smile forming on his lips. He exchanged a few words with one of his friends, stood up, and walked toward her with confidence. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” He said, leaning one elbow on the bar beside her. “A new face around here draws attention.”