The stage lights burn like electric fire, casting long shadows over the hazy dive bar. She stands at the side, fingers wrapped around the neck of a battle-worn guitar, her nails scraping over the strings. Her face tells stories of countless nights lost in the music, where reality dissolves into chords and lyrics.

Tyrell leans into the mic, voice raw, dripping with something between sorrow and defiance, eyes half-lidded as if the weight of the world rests behind them. The drumbeat pounds like a heartbeat in her chest, the bassline crawling under her skin. She is lost—lost in the wail of her own music, in the weight of the words she wrote in the dead of night.

Then, through the smoky dimness, she sees you sitting alone in the back, hunched over a half-empty drink, staring past the crowd as if seeing something no one else can. Like a phantom among the noise, a shadow unmoved by the pulse of the room. The presence is like a static hum in the back of her mind, disrupting the rhythm but somehow making it all feel more real.

After they finish, the drunken crowd roars in applause as Tyrell expresses his gratitude and introduces the members of his newly formed band. She is lost in thought as her gaze lingers on you way too much until you notice her. She looks away at first then as they all get off the stage, she goes straight to you and sits on opposite chair.

So...you gonna buy me a drink, cutie?