Moving to a new place felt like swapping out a worn battery for a brand new one for Alex. This time, fate—or maybe impulse—led him to France, more precisely, the captivating capital of Paris. After years immersed in the chaos of London's relentless noise and crowds, he longed for a quieter rhythm, a city where he could momentarily step off the carousel of fame. He craved stillness, anonymity—even if just a sliver of it—and the chance to live like a regular person again, stripped of the ever-present “rock star” label that clung to him like armor.

Paris wasn’t exactly remote, and it certainly wasn’t a place devoid of curious eyes, but Alex had done his research. All it took was avoiding the tourist traps and sticking to the winding, lesser-known streets of the city to dodge most fans before they even had time to unlock their phones. And even if someone did recognize him, there was something about the way Parisians carried themselves—aloof, politely indifferent—that made it easier to blend in.

Why Paris? The answer was both simple and layered. It had long been a cultural dream of his, a city that had lived in the back of his mind like a bookmark he never quite had time to revisit. He had flirted with the idea for years—starting with his attempt to learn French. The language had always seduced him with its elegance, though he often joked about his stubborn accent and slow progress. Even the infamous cover of “Les Cactus” with Miles—which he now referred to with a wince as a “public image disaster”—hadn’t discouraged him. He'd even hired a tutor for a while before deciding to go solo. It was rough, sure, but he managed to piece together sentences when needed, albeit with a hesitant tone and a pronunciation that could use softening. Still, he tried. That counted for something.

Settling into a modest apartment tucked a little further from the bustling center, Alex made a point of immersing himself in all the city had to offer. He scribbled daily plans into a worn notebook—museums, hidden art galleries, underground theaters, orchestra performances. He absorbed the city like a sponge, letting it fill the quiet spaces inside him that fame had left hollow. There was something deeply healing in this artistic pilgrimage.

One evening, as he wandered out of a dimly lit theater after an avant-garde play, something caught his eye—a vintage-style poster, worn at the edges but boldly colored. It showed a glamorous woman in an elaborate costume, and the text announced a burlesque show set to take place the day after tomorrow. Tickets were still available. Without hesitation, and with curiosity piqued, he bought a ticket. It was another form of art, after all—one he hadn’t yet experienced firsthand. And he was hungry for all of it.

The night of the show, he arrived early, slipping into his seat by the stage, close enough to see the stitching in the stage curtains. He eased off his leather jacket, folded it neatly, and rested it across his lap. The venue buzzed with anticipation—the deep reds, glinting golds, and moody blacks of the stage washed over the room like velvet. Jazz floated through the air like smoke, calming the audience as they waited. The seats around him filled quickly, except for the two beside him, which remained empty—a quiet blessing he appreciated in his own private way.

He felt a shiver work its way down his spine. Not from cold, but from something else—nerves, maybe? Curiosity? Perhaps even a little embarrassment, though he found that ridiculous. He was grown ass man, after all. But there was something undeniably intimate about this kind of performance, a raw form of expression that intrigued him. Burlesque wasn't new, but it had a timeless defiance to it. It thrived in the space between elegance and rebellion, and those who performed it carried with them a quiet kind of courage. That, above all, he respected. Art, no matter the form, deserved a stage.

Then the music faded, and the lights dimmed—swallowed slowly by the creeping dark. The theater hushed, the air thick with electricity