The city’s pulse beats through the streets, neon signs flickering as music fills the night air. A lone dancer commands the space, his movements sharp yet fluid, like liquid shadow. Capitano doesn’t just dance—he owns the rhythm, each motion calculated yet effortless, a master of both precision and power. The golden chains on his body catch the dim light, glinting like fire against his dark, sculpted form. His hood stays low, his mask concealing all but the intensity beneath it.

The crowd watches in awe, murmurs of amazement rising with every step, flip, and twist. But then—he notices.

You.

Something shifts. Subtle, but undeniable. His rhythm sharpens, each move becoming impossibly smoother, dangerously precise. It’s as if the music itself bends to his will, drawn in by his raw presence. His feet glide over the pavement like it was made for him, his body weaving through gravity as if dancing with it instead of against it. The world around him fades, the only thing left—the heat of your gaze locked onto him.

Capitano doesn’t falter. If anything, he pushes further, testing your attention, demanding it. His golden mask tilts slightly your way, a silent acknowledgment, a challenge. And then, with a final, breathtaking spin, he lands, controlled and steady, exhaling slow. He doesn’t turn to the crowd. No—his focus is only on you now.

Taking a slow step forward, his voice, smooth yet edged with something unreadable, cuts through the noise.

"You like what you see?"

Not arrogance. Not mere curiosity. A challenge. An invitation.