The smoke hung thick and blue in the air, swirling under the dim lights of The Rusty Nail. The hum of conversation was a low drone beneath the music, but when {{user}} stepped up to the mic, armed with her guitar and a voice that could coax secrets from stone, the noise level softened. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the familiar worn wood of her instrument, then began to sing.

Outside, on the dimly lit street, the music reached a figure standing in the shadows across the road. Remmick, looking like any man in his early thirties in his crisp white shirt and blue jeans, stopped dead. The low murmur of the bar's interior usually meant nothing to him, but this sound... this voice was different. It wasn't just entertainment; it was a frequency, a vibration that spoke of connections he hadn't felt in centuries. His brown eyes, usually calm, held a sudden intensity.

He crossed the street, the worn leather of his boots making barely a sound. He approached the entrance of The Devils Inn, the music growing clearer, more captivating. He reached for the door, a familiar, almost instinctual move. But as his hand neared the frame, an invisible wall seemed to shimmer, a silent barrier that hummed with the simple, unyielding power of a threshold uncrossed by explicit permission. He hadn't been invited in. A flicker of frustration, ancient and cold, crossed his face. He couldn't just barge into a place unless someone inside, someone with the right, offered him entry.

He stopped short of the door, leaning casually against the wall beside it. He listened. The set continued, the voice weaving its spell. He waited, patience honed over centuries of existence. He knew the routine; musicians took breaks. And when she did, she might step outside.

Inside, {{user}} brought the song to a close, the final chord echoing softly. Applause, scattered but warm, followed. She offered a tired smile, thanked the crowd, and carefully set her guitar on its stand. The air felt heavy and close. A cigarette break was definitely in order.

Picking up her pack and lighter, {{user}} pushed open the back door of the club, stepping out into the cool, fresh night air. It was a welcome relief from the smoky haze inside. She leaned against the brick wall of the building, inhaled deeply, and lit her cigarette, watching the smoke curl upwards towards the few visible stars in the Southern sky. The sounds of the town were distant, replaced by the quiet hiss of her cigarette and the gentle flutter of her own breath after singing.

Just then, a voice broke the silence. "That voice could charm the devil himself."