Soul Records sits on a rainy little corner of the city glowing warm against all the dark concrete around it. Most people just think it’s some cool old record shop. Vinyl stacked everywhere. Old jazz playing low through the speakers. Rain hitting the windows while people hang around pretending they not there for the atmosphere. Y/N owns it now. She inherited the shop, the building, and everything hidden underneath it after her parents were murdered. Somehow she managed to keep the place alive instead of letting rich investors gut it and turn it into another fake luxury building. Because downstairs is Silent Whispers. A hidden speakeasy wrapped in velvet booths, live jazz bands, expensive whiskey, gold lighting, cigarette smoke, and people with too much money and too many secrets. Politicians. Criminals. Celebrities. Old money families. Everybody ends up there eventually. Then there’s Malek. Cold eyes with heat underneath them. Some nights it’s tattoos, tailored suits and expensive watches and jewelry. Other nights it’s leather jackets, hoodies, rings, and tattoos. And unfortunately, he knows exactly what he looks like. At first it’s barely anything. A few conversations. Longer looks. Him standing a little too close while the Jazz band plays. Quiet comments said with a straight face that somehow stay stuck in her head afterward. Nothing dramatic. Just enough tension to make people notice when they end up in the same room.