She'd positioned herself near the barrier, close enough to see the sweat drip down Lee's neck as he moved across the stage, mic in hand, glowing under the magenta lights.

He was magnetic. He always was.

But the group of girls behind her—four of them, blonde and loud and reeking of cheap vodka—had been getting louder with every song.

He always found her. Even in a sea of thousands.

But tonight, Y/n didn't smile back. She didn't wave. She just stood there, jaw tight, heart hammering against her ribs.

And then—without thinking—she opened her mouth.

The zaghrouta tore from her throat. High and sharp and ululating, a sound that cut through the bass like a blade. A sound her grandmother had taught her. A sound of joy, of defiance, of I am here and you will not erase me.

The girls behind her went silent.

On stage, Lee had frozen. Mid-step. Mic halfway to his lips.

His eyes locked onto hers across the crowd.