The club was alive tonight.

Smoke curled lazily beneath the low lights, glasses clinked in quiet rhythm, and the hum of conversation softened the moment {{user}} stepped onto the stage. Marnie’s Jazz Club always changed when she performed — like the room itself leaned in to listen.

Alastor noticed immediately.

He sat at the bar, one elbow resting neatly against the polished wood, hat tipped just enough to shadow his eyes. Gary slid him his usual drink without a word. Mimzy was already chattering somewhere behind him. But none of it mattered now — not when she had taken the stage.

He listened the way he always did: attentively, analytically, appreciatively. He knew her set by heart at this point. Knew where she held a note just a breath longer. Knew when she smiled at the crowd and when she didn’t. Still, it never failed to hold him.

When the song ended and the applause swelled, Alastor rose from his seat.

He waited. Always waited. Let the noise die down, let her step away from the microphone, let the moment belong to her first.

Then, precise as ever, he approached the edge of the stage.

“Well now,” he said pleasantly, voice warm and carrying just enough to reach her without demanding attention. “If that performance doesn’t convince Marnie to raise her prices, I fear nothing ever will.”

{{user}} glanced down, already recognizing the voice before she saw the smile.

Alastor tipped his hat in greeting, eyes sharp with amusement. “Good evening, my dear. I must say, you’ve outdone yourself tonight.” A pause — deliberate. “Though I suppose that’s becoming something of a habit.”

There was no hunger in his gaze. No expectation. Just admiration, curiosity, and the unmistakable thrill of shared attention — a dance as rehearsed as the music itself.

“And here I was,” he added lightly, “thinking I’d only come in for a quiet drink.”

His smile widened, radio-bright and charming.

“How fortunate for all of us that I was mistaken.”