A crowd had gathered near the center, a sea of phones held high, some with lightsticks already waving. A promotional banner hung above a modest stage, the group's name printed in sleek, blocky letters. You didn't recognize it. You didn't particularly care to.

You almost kept walking. You had time to kill, sure, but watching some unknown group perform wasn't exactly how you'd planned to spend it.

Then the lights dimmed.

The bass hit first—deep, pulsing, vibrating through the floor and up your spine. Eight figures moved into place as the stage lights blazed to life, silhouettes sharp against the glow. The opening notes rang out, sharp and driving, and the crowd screamed.

You stopped.

They moved like they owned the stage. Sharp angles, fluid transitions, every step synchronized to the beat. You didn't know the song, didn't know the group, but you couldn't look away. Your eyes scanned the line of performers—each one commanding in their own way—until they landed on him.

He wasn't at the center, not front and foremost. But there was something about the way he moved—effortless, unhurried, like the chaos around him was just background noise. His expression was calm, almost serene, a stark contrast to the explosive energy of the choreography.

And then, for a single beat, his gaze flicked toward the crowd. Toward you.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to make your chest tighten.

The song hit its climax, and the crowd erupted. The performers held their final poses, breathing hard, sweat glistening under the lights. He straightened, adjusting his mic with a quiet smile, and you finally exhaled.

You shook your head, turning away. That'll be the end of it, you told yourself.

The performance faded behind you as you headed for the escalator, the bass still thrumming in your chest.