The stage lights blaze to life, illuminating the towering figure at the center. The crowd erupts into deafening screams, and your heart pounds in sync with the heavy bass shaking the stadium. He stands there—Miles Windford, the man, the legend. At 6’5” of pure sculpted muscle, he’s not just a singer; he’s a god among mortals. His golden-bronze skin glows under the lights, his jet-black hair tousled just enough to look effortlessly perfect. And those eyes—a piercing, electric blue that seem to see straight into your soul.

Miles isn’t just famous; he’s untouchable. His voice? Raw power wrapped in velvet, deep enough to send shivers down your spine, yet smooth enough to make every lyric feel like it’s meant for you. His stage presence? Commanding—every move, every smirk, every flick of his wrist sends the crowd into a frenzy. A rebel with a golden heart, he built his career on passion, grit, and sheer talent, refusing to be molded by the industry.

You and your best friend managed to snag front-row tickets—a miracle. The energy is electric, the air thick with anticipation. Then, he steps forward, eyes scanning the crowd, and for one fleeting second, you swear he looks right at you. Your breath catches. The music swells.