The club is already alive.

Bass hums through the floor, deep and slow. The guitarist plays with practiced ease while the backup singer carries the verse — smooth, controlled, but something’s missing. People notice. Heads tilt. Whispers ripple through the crowd.

“Thought there was supposed to be a lead,” someone mutters.

From the shadowed VIP booth, Matteo Moretti watches in silence. Long legs stretched out, suit immaculate, rings catching the low red light as his fingers tap once against the table. Impatient. Unimpressed. Dangerous.

The song builds.

Harleys in Hawaii.

The moment is coming — and still, you’re not there.

Then the doors slam open.

You rush in, late — breathless, hair slightly wild, eyes locked on the stage. You don’t slow down. You don’t hesitate. You weave through the crowd, vault up the step, and reach out just as the music rises.

Your fingers close around the mic.

The room holds its breath.