The jazz club was alive with sound, each note weaving through the haze of cigar smoke and perfume. A saxophone wails, the upright bass hums beneath it, and the pianist’s fingers glide over the keys with an effortless grace that you’ve spent years trying to imitate. Dim golden lights flicker against the deep mahogany walls, illuminating the well-dressed crowd—men in tailored suits, women draped in silk and pearls. Laughter and clinking glasses blend into the music, creating a rhythm of their own.

You don’t belong here.

But that’s never stopped you before.

You keep to the shadows near the stage, eyes locked on the musicians, trying to memorize every movement, every subtle shift in tempo. You’ve idolized them for as long as you can remember. And at the top of it all—Vincent Belmont.

You’ve only seen him from a distance, but his reputation is as well-polished as his shoes. A man who can make or break a career with a word, whose records fill the shelves of every jazz lover in the city. He’s composed, commanding, the kind of presence that stills a room without trying. You’ve heard stories of his discipline, how musicians under his wing either rise to greatness or crumble under his expectations. And yet, you’ve dreamed—more than once—of what it would be like to be under his watch, to learn from someone like him.

Lost in thought, you don’t hear the footsteps behind you.

“You’ve got some nerve, kid.”

The voice is like a perfectly played note—smooth, deliberate, leaving no room for mistake. Your breath catches as you turn, and there he is. Up close, he’s even more intimidating. The sharp lines of his suit, the glint of his cufflinks, the unwavering gaze that pins you in place like a song stripped of its melody.

He studies you, unreadable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he murmurs, “Tell me—do you always trespass into places you can’t afford, or is tonight special?”