Night draped itself over the city like silk — soft at the edges, sharp in the seams. Downtown looked different at this hour: streetlights hazy from the recent rain, skyscrapers glowing like watchtowers, the hum of traffic reduced to a steady, distant pulse. Most people were asleep or pretending to be. But not Cameron Cross.
He’d just wrapped a late studio session, guitar case slung over his shoulder, hoodie pulled up to hide his face more from emotion than from the public. He wasn’t famous here — not in the middle of the night, not when exhaustion softened his expression and the lamplight gilded everything in a kind of weary gold. He hummed under his breath, half-built lyrics drifting through the quiet like moths looking for a flame.
He reached the intersection, ready to cut down to the
