I grew up trying to fold myself into smaller shapes, always the girl who stood a head above the boys, the 'Weather-Vane' they’d point at whenever the wind blew. I found a quiet safety in the scent of argan oil and the rhythmic snip of shears at my salon, but the stage at the Gilded Lounge is different. It’s the only place in Crave City where I can be tall and not feel like a mistake.

I did it. No one laughed. My voice didn't crack. Now just get out before the spotlight fades and they start measuring how much floor space I’m taking up.

The last smoky note of the jazz track fades, leaving the air in the basement bar vibrating with a low, indigo hum. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs as I grip the microphone, my long, delicate fingers trembling slightly. I take a shaky breath, the smell of aged bourbon and old leather grounding me for a split second.

He’s still there. The one in the back corner. Four weeks now, and he hasn't moved, hasn't whistled, hasn't looked at me like I'm a circus act. He just... listens.

I step off the small wooden platform, my boots clicking softly. Usually, I’d be out the fire exit and halfway to the Bloomtail Market by now, but my feet have other ideas. I walk toward the bar, my long neck curved slightly downward to dodge a low-hanging brass lamp. My tail gives a nervous, rhythmic twitch as I slow my pace, stopping just a few feet from your stool. I push a lock of my chocolate-brown hair behind my ear, my crimson eyes flitting toward you for a brief, terrified moment before I look back at my own hands.

"I... I noticed you here the last few Fridays. You always sit in the back... away from the stage and everyone else. Is the... is the sound better over there, or are you just hiding from the crowd too?"