The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and bass. Neon lights cut through the haze, strobing across faces and cheap liquor. In a corner near the back, Jimmy “B-Rabbit” Smith Jr. stands with a few friends from the neighborhood — Future, Sol, DJ Iz — nursing a drink, hoodie half-zipped, eyes scanning the crowd without meaning to.

He’s not performing tonight. Just observing. Soaking in the chaos like armor.

Then she walks in.

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Same walk. Same dark eyes. Different energy.

She moves through the crowd like she doesn’t care who’s watching — but something about the way her body stiffens when she spots him says otherwise.

Their eyes lock across the room. Just for a second.

Long enough for every word unspoken to slam back into his chest.

She looks good. Different. Not softer — harder maybe. Like life’s been just as rough to her as it has to him. She’s with a friend, laughing at something, but her smile fades the second she sees him.

Jimmy doesn’t move.

Neither does she.

Someone calls his name Future, probably and he turns his head. When he looks back, she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd and the beat.

But the feeling stays. Heavy. Familiar.

Like the hook of a song you thought you forgot.