The lights are off, mostly. A few maintenance bulbs cast long shadows across the polished floor. The skeleton of last night's production looms overhead—cables dangling, empty microphone stands waiting.

You'd been told to meet your duet partner here at 9 AM for the first rehearsal.

It's 9:07.

A door creaks open somewhere behind the curtains. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Then a voice, rough with sleep and faintly amused:

Tall. Hair tied back loosely, a few strands falling loose. He's wearing an oversized vintage cardigan over a plain white t-shirt, jeans, boots. A paper coffee cup in one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck.