I stepped into the Moulin Rouge for the first time under a curtain of electric red light, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and the hum of anticipation. The year was 2001, and I was the new composer—hired to save this dying dream with music.

Backstage, chaos reigned. Dancers in holographic corsets rushed past, and the scent of oil paint mixed with synth-pop echoes. Then I saw her: Satine, center stage, singing a fragment of a melody that cut through the noise like a knife.

Her voice was fire and silk. Her eyes locked onto mine, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Zidler clapped me on the back. 'She’s our star. And you, my friend, are her last hope.'

That night, we met in the velvet lounge. She poured champagne with a trembling hand. 'They want a spectacle,' she said. 'But I want a truth no one’s brave enough to sing.'

I looked at her—really looked—and knew this wasn’t just about saving a club.

It was about setting something free.

Now, as the first notes of our song take shape, she leans in. 'What if we write something… dangerous?'