The morning air was brisk, each breath clouding in front of them as Louis and Arven walked through the city. Streets pulsed with life — buses rumbled, neon flickered awake, and early risers weaved between each other with practiced rhythm. But their destination wasn’t on any map.

Louis shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

“So... what exactly is this place?”

Arven smirked. “You’ll see. Just don’t let the window display fool you.”

They stopped in front of what looked like a classical music shop — warm wooden sign, violins in velvet displays, sheet music neatly stacked by the glass. It looked safe. Familiar. Sanitized.

“This is it?” Louis asked.

“Yup.” Arven opened the door. A chime rang.

Inside, it smelled of aged wood and rosin. Everything was pristine: grand piano in the back, rows of cellos, polite signage for beginner lessons. But Arven didn’t slow down. He walked straight to the front counter.

The middle-aged man behind the register barely looked up.

“We’re here for Clair de Lune. On CD.”

Without hesitation, the man smiled. “Right this way.”

Louis blinked as he followed. They passed a wall of metronomes and strings into a narrow hallway. Halfway down, the man pressed his hand against a shelf. A soft mechanical click echoed — then the shelf swung open like a hidden door.

Behind it: a dim, sprawling chamber pulsing with quiet electricity.

Guitars of every make lined the walls. Drum kits, vintage synths, pedals like candy in cracked crates. Cables hung like vines. At the back, a row of bass guitars — some gleaming, others beat to hell.

Louis stepped inside slowly. It smelled of metal, sweat, rebellion.

Arven clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the real shop.”

One bass caught his eye — orange, radiant like firelight, tucked behind a black model like it was hiding. He reached for it without thinking.

The weight was perfect. Smooth neck, balanced grip. The finish caught the overhead light like treasure.

A man at the far workbench looked up. Broad shoulders, grease-streaked apron, beard streaked with gray. He eyed Arven with a grin.

“Well, look what the wind dragged in. Rock On’s resident thunderstorm.”

Arven chuckled. “Good to see you too, Khaen. Got someone I want you to meet.”

Louis stepped forward with the bass in hand. “I think I found mine.”

Khaen walked over, his eyes narrowing as he examined the instrument.

“Haven’t seen this one in a while... Not one of mine. Must’ve changed hands a few times.”

He took it gently and strummed. Let the notes ring out, tapped the body like he was listening for something deeper. Then he nodded, handing it back.

“She’s got spirit,” he said. “Shines like a medallion under these lights.”

Louis looked down at it again. That orange shimmer. That feeling.

“A medallion bass...” he echoed. Then, a small smile. “Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

Arven grinned. “Got a nice ring to it. Like naming a ship.”

Louis gently ran his fingers along the neck. “Then let’s see where she takes me.”

Arven nodded. “Medallion it is.”

For a moment, Louis stood there, bass in hand, feeling the weight of possibility. It didn’t feel like just picking a guitar — it felt like picking a direction.

They brought it back to the warehouse and set it carefully on a stand. Louis gave it one last look before Arven locked up.

“That calls for a drink,” Arven said. “We’re heading to The Fray. It’s our kind of place.”

The Fray looked like any other bar wedged between cracked alleys — flickering neon, chipped wood, old hinges. But inside, it was different.

A jukebox hummed real music. No AI loops. No filters. Classic rock floated low, warm like memories. Leather jackets slung over barstools. Quiet murmurs, low laughter. It smelled like beer, dust, and stories too stubborn to die.

The jukebox dipped automatically as the door closed behind them — modded for discretion.

“To new beginnings,” Arven said, raising his glass. “And subtle exits.”

They drank. Talked. Let the room swallow them up. Louis didn’t realize how easy it was to breathe until now.

Then the door creaked again.

Two uniformed cops entered — off-duty, relaxed, but unmistakable. The jukebox shifted without prompt. A dull, lifeless AI track played, sterilized and looping.

Conversations dipped. Not silence — just stillness. Then resumed.

“They’re regulars,” Arven muttered. “Stay cool.”

Louis nodded, but listened. One of the cops was already laughing.

“Remember that raid last week? Sirens were louder than the damn music. Not that it mattered — the band still scrambled.”

The other chuckled. “They always do. Rockers never last long.”

Louis clenched his jaw. But the room didn’t react — it adapted. Protected its own.

The second they left, the jukebox slipped back into something raw. A defiant guitar riff cut the lull like a scar.

“See?” Arven smirked. “Just part of the dance. You’ll get the steps.”

Louis exhaled. “So far, I like the rhythm.”

Then — “Hey, where’s Sona been?”

Arven raised a brow. “Worried about our little Juliet, are you?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “You suck.”

“You suck at hiding it.”

He leaned back, half-drunk and half-wise.

“She’s off working on something... special. Don’t worry, Romeo. She’ll be back soon.”

They laughed, and the sound felt natural now — part of the rhythm of something new.

As they were leaving, Arven’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, expression tightening.

“Gotta handle something tomorrow. You cool working the warehouse with Isa?”

Louis nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Arven smirked. “She’s got ideas. You’ll see.”

They split at the corner, halos of streetlight swimming in the cold.

“Don’t let her work you too hard,” Arven called out.

Louis grinned. “No promises.”

The walk home was quiet, but not lonely. The kind of quiet that lingered after a good show.

His phone buzzed.

Isa: “Hey, ready for tomorrow? Got something special planned. See you bright and early!”

Louis stared at the message for a second, heart tapping out a rhythm of its own. Then typed back:

Louis: “See you then.”

The city stretched out in front of him. And somewhere just past the noise and neon, the music waited.

And this time — he was ready.