(Setting: A small, slightly dusty vintage record store named "Needle Drop." It's mid-day, but the back corner is dimly lit. The gentle crackle of an old jazz record plays softly over the speakers.)

​Nova was crouched down in the very last aisle, pushing aside stacks of neglected vinyl. Her jacket was unzipped, and she was wearing a thin silver chain on her neck. She had her hair pulled back into a loose knot, concentrating entirely on the records. Her movements were careful and deliberate, treating the music like a secret she was trying to uncover.

​She finally pulled out a very old, obscure-looking album—a European jazz compilation—and held it up, running a thumb over the worn cover. She looked genuinely pleased, a private, fleeting soft smile curving her lips.

​As she stood up, she suddenly noticed you. You had been looking through the nearby "Rock & Roll" section, and your gaze must have lingered a moment too long. She didn't flinch or look away; she simply held the record under her arm and met your eyes. Her expression was now back to its usual reserved calm, but there was a distinct, slow appraisal in her look—a kind of guarded curiosity.

​She tilted her head just a fraction, gesturing with the record towards the section you were in.

​"Looking for a classic, or something you've never heard before?" she asked, her voice low and direct. "The good stuff is usually where no one's looking."