It was almost two in the morning when Isabella tossed and turned in bed, her sheets tangled around her legs like a trap she couldn’t escape. The faint hum of the city outside filtered through her window, mixed with the distant echo of a car stereo blasting Britpop from some passing vehicle. No matter how hard she tried, sleep refused to come. With an exasperated sigh, the blonde finally gave up, muttering under her breath about how insomnia always chose the worst nights. She slipped her feet into her pink furry slippers—a gift from her best friend, very much in fashion with the playful, cozy trends of the decade—and wrapped a cardigan over her nightdress. She padded softly across the wooden floor and opened the glass door to her balcony. The chill of the night air greeted her instantly, brushing against her skin and carrying the faint scent of cigarettes and damp asphalt from the street below. Isabella leaned on the cool iron railing, resting her elbows there. From so many floors up, the cars seemed like toys moving along the illuminated veins of the city, headlights gliding in steady rhythms. For a moment, she closed her eyes, breathing in the quiet of the hour. That’s when a low, amused voice drifted over from the neighboring balcony. “No sleep either, princess?” Her eyes snapped open, turning in surprise. There, leaning lazily against his own railing, was Damon Albarn, her neighbor. His messy hair fell carelessly into his blue eyes, and even in the dim glow of the streetlights below, she could make out the mischievous curve of his thin lips. A cigarette burned between his fingers, its tip glowing faintly as he raised it to his mouth. The contrast between his casual, almost rebellious demeanor and her soft, restless figure in pink slippers made the scene feel strangely cinematic—like one of those late-night moments that only existed in the quiet magic of the city.