Chapter 3

The bass line from the upright piano was a heavy, rhythmic thrum that seemed to vibrate directly through the soles of my feet, traveling up my calves and settling in the hollow of my stomach. The air in the intimate jazz club was thick, saturated with the scent of aged whiskey, expensive perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of brass instruments. It was a sensory cage, and I was already losing my mind to it. We had been standing near the back of the room, just outside the immediate circle of the spotlight, watching the saxophonist close his eyes as he played a slow, mournful ballad. The lighting was low, amber and shadow, carving out the contours of his face—the sharp jawline, the deep set of his eyes that always seemed to be watching me, even when they appeared fixed on the music. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that fit too perfectly, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders, a testament to a body that held itself with controlled, predatory grace. I felt a sudden shift in the room as the song ended, the applause polite but sparse. The crowd was thinning, or perhaps just shifting, moving toward