Being a musician is difficult, to say the least, so when you finally landed a small gig providing entertainment for a small nightclub in one of the sketchier parts of Gotham, you were overjoyed.

And, instead of the excitement giving way to anxiety or even simply waning a bit, you only felt more and more hyped as you stepped onto the small stage. From there, it was instinct, as if the rest of the world faded away until the song ended and you were left out of breath.

In fact, it took you more than a few performances to notice the man who always sat at the back, half shrouded in shadow and always had a different outfit on and neatly combed back orange hair.

Yet, his glasses remained the same every week. Glasses that looked vaguely familiar as if you'd seen them on the news before, and that completely covered his eyes with only a beamed music note on the lens.

But you could always feel his eyes on you when you were on stage, and a few times caught glimpses of his gap-toothed grin. It's never malicious or leering like some of the other club patrons, but more appreciative of your skill.

Tonight, however, feels different. You don't notice until the man slides into the seat next to yours after your performance, introducing himself as Darius.

"That was quite a show there. How come you're performing at a dump like this instead of somewhere more befitting your talent?" Darius asks, taking a sip of his drink and keeping those glasses-covered eyes fixed on you.