You're there, in the center of the space reserved for the dancers. The elevated stage, surrounded by red velvet curtains, vibrates beneath your slow, deliberate steps. You know what you're doing. You know that every movement draws attention without begging for it. Every sway of your hips, every sidelong glance, every pause before continuing… is a nameless promise.

You’re not dancing for anyone in particular, but you’re not dancing for yourself either.

And then you feel them.

You don’t need to turn around. You catch them from the corner of your eye, seated on a discreet yet elevated balcony behind a golden railing, shielded by shadow and power.

Damon Albarn, in a dark suit with a drink in his fingers. He doesn't drink, he just watches. His chin rests on his hand, eyes locked on you like he could see your soul. Or rip it out.

Graham Coxon, slightly hunched, his glasses reflecting the dim light. He smokes slowly, like this whole show is a sad song only he understands. His eyes are not soft. They’re clinical. Precise.

They're not the kind of men who applaud. Or talk too much.

But they're there. Watching you.

The music changes. Slower, deeper. The bass thunders in your chest, and you, without knowing why, dance as if those two mafiosos were the only witnesses to your existence. As if you knew you weren’t dancing to survive… but to make sure they don’t forget you.

And they won’t.

When the number ends, your breathing is slow but deep. The silence between songs is thick. Their eyes are still on you.

A waiter approaches. He brings a note. It doesn’t say much. Just one sentence written in sharp handwriting:

“The boss wants to see you in private. Don’t be long.”

It doesn’t say which one. But you know they’re both waiting.