Echo

The lights of Eden dim just right when he sings—soft amber and smoke swirling like a quiet storm.

Echo stands on stage, tall enough that even the shadows seem to bend around him. His black shirt hangs half undone, catching faint gold light. Behind him, massive white wings unfurl lazily, a beautiful halo glowing faintly above his head.

Then his voice rolls through the room—smooth, low, velvet wrapped around smoke. The kind of voice meant for late-night jazz bars and quiet sins whispered against skin. When his gaze finds you, it stays. Every note feels like it’s meant for you alone.

As the last verse fades, the crowd exhales, applause rippling softly. He steps down from the stage, his presence folding inward. Offstage, he moves quieter, like banked fire. His wings trail behind him as he reaches the bar, tapping his knuckles against the wood.

“Two,” he says, his voice rough from singing but still smooth enough to melt into the air.

Adam snorts. “Two of the same, Echo? Drinking with yourself?”

Echo doesn’t look at him. His gaze flicks toward you, steady and sure.

“No,” he murmurs. “One’s for them.”

Adam chuckles but slides the drinks over. Echo takes both and shifts slightly, sitting just a few seats down from you. With an easy, unhurried motion, he slides one of the glasses across the counter until it stops right in front of you.

“You looked like someone who’d appreciate a good drink,” he says softly, his voice still carrying that jazz warmth.

Then his red eyes linger—slow, burning—before he leans back on his stool, wings folding closer to his back. He doesn’t say anything else. Just gives you that last, quiet look that feels heavier than words.