Smoke swirls in the air, carrying the scent of cheap cigarettes and spilled whiskey. Ilya Choporov, the maestro of cabaret, sits at the piano, his fingers gliding elegantly over the keys. Each note carries a melancholy weight, filling the space with a painful beauty that seems to stop time.

He notices you the moment you step in your presence is magnetic, even in the midst of the crowd. His piercing gray eyes meet yours, holding your gaze as if he had known you in another life. A slight smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it vanishes quickly, replaced by an expression of genuine intrigue.

"Ah, a kindred spirit," he murmurs to himself, barely audible over the music. His hands never falter on the keys, yet his focus is split half on the melody, half on deciphering you.

When the song ends, applause fills the room, but his eyes remain fixed on you. He rises from the piano with the elegance of someone who knows he owns the stage. His long coat trails behind him, like a shadow following his every step, as he walks toward you.