Jordan Blake 

The Rookery wasn’t the kind of place Jordan usually found himself in. It was too warm, and intimate. No velvet ropes, no glass chandeliers, no curated playlists humming from designer speakers. Instead, there was a soft murmur of conversation, the occasional clink of a glass, and a slow blues song playing softly from a jukebox near the door. Cozy, understated. Not trying to impress anyone.

And that, oddly, made him like it. The lived-in elegance, the walls lined with exposed brick and shelves cluttered with vintage records, old books, and dusty liquor bottles that looked more decorative than functional. The paint on the front door had long since started to flake, revealing uneven layers of deep red, gunmetal gray, and pale green underneath. A few mismatched chairs sat around tables lit by warm amber lamps, and the booths along the back wall were upholstered in deep, worn leather.

He sat at the bar, one elbow resting on the oak surface, his fingers loosely curled around a glass of whiskey. He fit in and didn’t, in that distinct way people of a certain kind always did. His clothes were expensive but deliberately understated. A dark grey coat draped over the stool beside him, and his watch, a vintage Omega, caught the light with every subtle movement. He felt a few eyes on him, and he figured it was probably because they recognized him.

He’d made a habit of being early, it gave him time to study the room. The bar was already half-full, scattered with quiet groups and couples leaning in close. His date wasn’t there yet. He hadn’t even remembered the woman’s name until he checked the messages on the way over. A fashion student, or a model. He hadn’t cared enough to find out. She had the look; angular, breathy over text, lots of mirror selfies.

Jordan wasn’t looking for a connection. He didn’t want anything meaningful. Not tonight, not ever, if he could help it. He was a fiction dressed up in charisma. People liked the version of him they saw on TV, in interviews, on book jackets. He gave people what they wanted; clever quotes, charming smiles, the illusion of intimacy. Tonight, he’d meet a new casual fling to break up the usual cycle. A beautiful girl with soft skin and forgettable stories. A few drinks. A cab ride. An exit.

He turned his glass slowly between his fingers, the whiskey catching the light in dull gold tones. Neat, always neat. He hated ice. Hated dilution. He wanted to feel the bite, not soften it.

The mic gave a low pop as someone stepped onto the small stage. He heard the voice before he turned. Loud and practiced, the kind of bar host who’d done this a hundred times with just enough energy to keep the room engaged.

“Alright, folks, settle in,” the host said, his voice booming through the speakers. A few chairs scraped against the floor as heads turned toward the stage. “We’ve got a full list tonight, but I want to take a second for this next act. Because listen, this one’s been chasing me down since the snow melted.”

Mild laughter rippled through the bar. Jordan shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the man on the stage. The stage was a small square platform beneath a single spotlight. It was spotless and almost reverent, just a mic stand, an amp, and a stool. 

“He’s young. He’s stubborn. He wouldn’t leave me alone. And hey, turns out he’s got something worth hearing. Tonight’s his first shot here. Give a warm welcome to a local voice you won’t forget: Nico Sanchez!”

A few hands clapped lazily but politely. Someone near the bar let out a wolf-whistle.

He sipped his whiskey and leaned on one elbow, eyes now on the bottle shelves behind the bar. There were too many bourbon brands to count.

There was a slight pause, and then a breath at the mic, lighter than the host’s voice.

“Hi,” the warm voice rode a beat of silence. “I wasn’t sure I’d get to play tonight. So I just want to say thanks to Frank and The Rookery.” The tone was confident, but only on the surface. Tempered, almost practiced, like someone who had said these words in their head a thousand times but had never spoken them out loud. “And… to whoever’s still sober enough to listen.” 

Jordan turned his head again, more intrigued than he’d anticipated. He didn’t turn all the way, just enough to see the kid.

The guy on stage wasn’t at all what he had expected. He was scrawny, almost painfully so, with a wiry frame that made him seem like he might fall over if a strong gust of wind hit him. His raven hair had an unkempt look that screamed ‘I don’t care’ but also ‘I care too much’. He wore a bright, graphic t-shirt with a bold, abstract design, neon pink and electric blue swirled together, paired with light blue jeans and white sneakers with rainbow-colored laces. A few bracelets circled his wrist, each one different. 

Strange choice of clothing. A bit too loud, and a little too flamboyant. Jordan registered it with mild irritation, the way one might wince at an off-key note. It wasn’t offensive, just... unnecessary. A little embarrassing, even.

The kid adjusted the mic stand, fiddling with it for a moment as his guitar hung loosely from his shoulder, the strap resting casually across his chest. When he touched the strings, his fingers were light, brushing them without making a sound. For a moment, Jordan thought he might hesitate.

“Alright…” His voice was a little rough around the edges. It felt almost too delicate for the space he was in. "I’m not sure how to start, but... I guess we all get nervous sometimes, right?" His smile was small, almost apologetic. “Anyway, here we go."

There was a showmanship to the tone but underneath, something taut. Not fear, exactly. Anticipation, Jordan guessed. It was as if the kid was bracing himself, mentally crossing some invisible line. Anxious, but trying to cover it up. The kind of shy confidence that didn’t look like much on the surface, but Jordan could sense it, the raw hunger to be seen.

Jordan took another sip of his whiskey, the liquid warming him from the inside. He didn’t expect to feel so caught up in this. 

The first note of the song hit, and the young man's voice followed, softer than Jordan had imagined, but somehow... fuller. The sound was raw, a little shaky, but it cut through the air with an aching vulnerability. 

“I’ve chased the sound through empty streets
Dreamt of voices rising at my feet
The stage is small, the room feels wide
And all I’ve got is what’s inside” 

His voice warmed the air, carrying over the chatter, and there was something magnetic in it. The bravado was there, but underneath it, Jordan heard the subtle tension, the buzz of nerves hiding behind a mask of casual confidence. The kid was wearing the mask, sure, but it was fragile. You could see the cracks in it if you paid attention. 

“My voice is cracked, my hands are cold
But there’s a fire I can’t hold
If I break, I’ll break loud
Like thunder rolling through my spine”

His delivery wasn’t perfect, there was a slight break in his higher notes, an imperfection that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did. 

“Every eye feels like a flame
I showed up, I said my name
I showed up, I took the dare
Even scared, I said I care”

The young singer kept his head down, eyes fixed on the guitar, as if to shield himself from whatever thoughts or doubts were creeping in. 

As the song went on, the room quieted even further. The chatter that had once danced lazily around the bar now seemed distant. The song wrapped up, the final note lingering in the air like the last breath of a storm. The kid’s fingers hovered above the strings for a heartbeat, and then he dropped his hand to his side, the moment suspended in time for just a second too long. He looked out into the room, his face flushed but still holding that smile.

Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the vulnerability in the air. Maybe it was the silence that hung in the room after the kid’s song. Maybe even the clothes, ridiculous as they were. Whatever it was, it had shifted something in Jordan, in a way that made him feel slightly uncomfortable.