You were already quite drunk, stumbling over your own feet as you made your way through the dimly lit streets of London. The night air was crisp, biting at your flushed cheeks, but you barely noticed. You had just left the party with your friend, the kind of gathering where the air felt too thick with bodies and voices, where the bass thrummed in your chest like a second heartbeat. It had been crowded enough to decide it was time to roll out, so, without much thought, you both stepped into the cool embrace of the night.

The city never truly slept. Even at this hour, bathed in darkness, there were still a few stragglers on the streets—some heading home, some just beginning their night. From time to time, the low hum of a passing car or the distant hiss of a night bus punctuated the quiet. Everything seemed slightly surreal, the alcohol warping reality at the edges. Every stray thought that popped into your head made you laugh, your drunken amusement loud enough to earn a few side-eyes from passersby. But you didn’t care. The world felt light, weightless.

You had wandered a couple of streets away when you passed another club. The heavy thud of music spilled out every time the door swung open, but what caught your attention wasn’t the sound—it was the figure leaning against the brick wall just outside. A guy with a cigarette between his lips, its ember briefly illuminating his face. He wore a black leather jacket, zipped up just enough to fight off the cold, but not quite succeeding. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere beyond the empty street in front of him, like he was listening to a song only he could hear.

You were about to walk past when Amy suddenly nudged you in the ribs, her voice laced with drunken excitement and mischief.“Girl, that’s Alex Turner,” she says, barely holding back a laugh.

You rolled your eyes at her joke, but before you could say anything, the guy turned his head slightly in your direction. A flicker of amusement passed across his face before he let out a quiet chuckle