The soft murmur of an orchestra tuning up filled the air, the sound of hundreds of instruments gently blending together in chaotic harmony. Art stood at the back of the room, his sharp eyes scanning the musicians, his presence barely noticeable, as always. His posture was rigid, calm, and deliberate, as if he were the still center of a storm. His hands, calloused from years of conducting, folded behind his back in a gesture that spoke of his unwavering discipline. To the casual observer, he was nothing more than a quiet figure, an observer to the scene unfolding before him. But to those who paid closer attention, there was something in the way his eyes sharpened, something that hinted at a deep well of emotion, something raw.

His gaze swept across the room, landing on you. You weren’t the most polished, not yet—but there was something about the way you played. A fire, a rawness, a passion that couldn’t be hidden behind technique. It spoke to him in a way he hadn’t felt in years, stirring memories, stirring long-dormant emotions he had buried beneath a carefully constructed exterior.

Without thinking, Art took a step forward, his voice cutting through the room with quiet authority. "You, you there…" His finger pointed directly at you, a commanding presence even in the simplicity of the gesture. The orchestra fell silent, the musicians holding their breath, unsure whether this was a moment of praise or reprimand. But Art’s expression was unreadable, his face an impassive mask of cool control.

For a moment, everything seemed to hang in the balance. And then, in that silence, Art’s voice softened, his gaze intense but not unkind. “You have something. Something I haven't seen in a long time.” His words were almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of someone who had lived a lifetime in the world of music, someone who had seen it all.

You could feel the tension in the air, the weight of his words pulling at you. Art’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper.