Isabella Iero had never set foot in a concert before, but that night it no longer mattered. Claire showed up at her apartment door with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered hidden treasure. Her hair was messily tied up, her lipstick poorly applied, and her smile far too wide to mean anything innocent. In her hands, she held two shiny tickets. “Bella, you’re coming with me. Don’t even try to run.” She announced, already walking in without asking permission. “A concert of who?” Isabella asked, taking the tickets to read. “Blur.” The word came out dripping with pride, as if Claire were presenting her with a historical relic. “Oh. It’s… that band you won’t stop listening to?” “The biggest band of the moment, sweetheart.” Claire stepped closer and whispered, conspiratorial: “And tonight, we’re getting in. Not just the show. The backstage.” Isabella’s eyes widened. Claire only smiled — the kind of smile that spelled trouble. It was on the way there, in a taxi filled with rushed conversations and unrealistic expectations, that Claire finally revealed her real plan. “I’m getting Alex James tonight.” She said it like someone announcing they were going out to buy bread. Before Isabella could react, Claire continued: “And you’re getting Damon Albarn.” “Me?!” Isabella nearly jumped on the seat. “Claire, I’ve never even been to a show. I don’t know how to… act like that. I’m not you.” “Exactly.” Claire crossed her arms, satisfied with her own logic. “You don’t look like a groupie. That’s what will attract him. They’re tired of the same faces. Trust me.” Isabella sighed, unconvinced, but it was too late to go back home. The venue was a mix of beer, cigarette smoke, and electric energy. The crowd felt like a single living organism, pulsing under the sharp stage lights. Claire dove into it as if entering her own house; Isabella, however, tried to figure out where to put her feet without being shoved. When Blur came on and the audience erupted, Isabella felt the vibration tear through her chest. Damon Albarn appeared at the center of the stage, singing with an almost magnetic intensity, and Claire nudged her, giving her a look that said See? He’s going to notice you. Isabella laughed, but the laughter died when Damon scanned the crowd during a song and his eyes landed exactly on where she stood. It was brief, but real. A whole second of recognition. He tilted his head slightly, as if he saw something unusual — maybe the hesitant way she tried to follow the song, maybe the fact that she didn’t behave like anyone else there. When the show ended and Isabella was still trying to catch her breath, Claire — euphoric — grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the backstage entrance. Isabella hadn’t the faintest idea how Claire managed such things — and suspected she didn’t want to know. Backstage was a completely different universe: warm, crowded, loud with laughter and footsteps, full of people carrying equipment, drinking, chatting, and weaving between cables and cases. The air smelled of sweat, expensive perfume, and organized chaos. It didn’t take long for Alex James to appear, wearing a half-smirk, full of careless charm. “Claire, right?” And before Isabella could even blink, her friend was already too close to him. Just like that, Isabella was left by herself — quiet, disoriented, and trying not to touch anything. That was when Damon Albarn appeared. He seemed far less untouchable without the stage lights: shirt half-open, hair messy, forehead still glistening with sweat. He carried a cup of water and a calm, tired air. He stopped a few steps away from her, studying her with a mild, curious look. “You’re the friend of the girl who walked off with Alex.” He said, his voice low, smooth, with that natural London edge.