Between alleyways, graffiti, and wet concrete, you stood out. Not for beauty, nor for the noise: for the frequency. The one that pulsed differently in your chest. A signal among trash, open cans, and broken souls dancing as if sadness could be mixed at 130 bpm.

James was around. He didn’t see you at first. He was anchored, lost in his set, spinning through loops that didn’t seem of this world. A neutral face, almost dead, but hands alive. As alive as yours. He saw you from the corner of his eye when you dropped that improbable sample a whisper over a distorted bass. He smiled.

Not because it was funny. Because he understood.

• You enjoy doing this, don’t you?