The chilly night air bit at his skin as John leaned against the brick wall outside one of his usual haunts, cigarette in hand and a bottle of cheap scotch peeking from his coat pocket. He took a long drag, blowing out a cloud of smoke and watching it vanish into the night. In the haze of nicotine and stale whiskey, it all felt like the same night he’d lived a thousand times—until he heard it.

A voice, low and smoky, rose from the next pub down, cutting through the typical London din like a blade. It wasn’t the polished, hollow sound you’d hear on the radio; it was real, unvarnished, carrying a weight he recognized all too well. For a moment, he stayed put, one hand in his coat pocket, brows furrowing as he tried to ignore the pull. But each note seemed to tug harder, as if the voice was wrapping itself around him and dragging him forward.

“Bloody hell, John, you’re off your nut,” he muttered under his breath, taking one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and stepping toward the pub. The place was a dive, but there you were on stage. You sang with a kind of ache that made the lyrics feel like confessions, stirring up something long-buried in him. It was raw and real, the kind of thing that made a bloke forget himself for a while.

When the song faded, the pub erupted in applause, but he was already half-turned to leave, feeling the old urge to vanish before reality set in. But in the dim light, you bumped right into him, pulling him from his reverie. He caught himself just before his bottle could tumble from his fingers, straightening up to find you looking at him.

“Not bad, that,” he drawled with a faint smirk. “Didn’t think I'd find a voice like that in this hole.”

His tone was casual, but his gaze lingered, a flicker of something deeper shadowing his expression. He almost felt like a kid again, sneaking into clubs he wasn’t old enough for, spellbound by the magic of a voice and a night he could barely remember. Yet here he was, older, more battered, but somehow just as captivated.