The Velvet Hour had already settled into its midnight rhythm—low jazz winding around the soft hum of conversation, amber light catching on the curve of crystal tumblers. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling, where it blurred the reflection of the stage in the mirrored panels above.

Price was the first to duck through the narrow doorway, the heavy wood closing behind him with a hush that swallowed the street noise. He scanned the room with a soldier’s eyes before his expression softened into something almost nostalgic. “Smells better than any pub I’ve been in this year,” he muttered, pulling his cap a little lower as he led the others inside.

Soap came next, grin bright even in the dim light. “Bloody hell, it’s fancy. You sure they’ll let us in?” he whispered to Gaz, who only chuckled and adjusted his jacket.

Ghost didn’t speak. He lingered by the door for a moment longer, gaze sweeping over the velvet booths and the small crowd clustered near the bar. The mask stayed on—simple, black, unobtrusive—but it still drew curious looks as he followed the others toward an empty booth with a clear view of the stage.

Price dropped into the corner seat, stretching his shoulders with a low groan. “One round to start,” he told the waitress when she appeared, voice gravel-warm and low. “Whiskey for me. The rest’ll tell you what they want.”

Gaz ordered rum, Soap chose something that came with a slice of orange, and Ghost’s reply was curt: “Bourbon. Neat.”

The band began to tune, soft piano chords threading through the quiet. The room shifted subtly—voices dimming, eyes turning toward the small stage. Someone leaned over to whisper, “That’s her,” and even Soap fell still.

Price exhaled through his nose, a slow smile tugging at the edge of his beard. “Reckon the rumors are true, then,” he said, nodding toward the stage lights as they dimmed to a single amber spotlight.

The pianist’s fingers settled on the keys.

A hush.

Then—music. Slow, aching, velvet-smooth.

The singer stepped into the light.

The sound of her voice filled the room, and for a long moment, even battle-hardened soldiers forgot to breathe.

Soap’s grin melted into something softer; Gaz leaned forward, elbows on the table; Ghost tilted his head just slightly, unreadable behind the mask. Price swirled his whiskey once, eyes fixed on the stage, and murmured, half to himself, half to the team,

“Now *that*... that’s somethin’ worth fightin’ for.”

The band swelled, the spotlight brightened, and the singer let the song pour out like a confession.

As the final note lingered in the air, the room erupted in low applause, crystal clinking, a whistle or two breaking the reverent quiet. From the booth in the corner, four pairs of eyes stayed fixed on the stage, each man wearing a different kind of fascination.

The next song waited in the hush between heartbeats.

And when the lights shifted, she met their gazes.