Brief
The city hummed low beneath the velvet dark, its neon veins pulsing in time with the distant traffic. Inside the private lounge tucked behind the venue, the air still carried the ghost of applause — warm, electric, and fading fast. Klavier Gavin stood near the wide window, one shoulder leaned against the cool glass as he stared out at the scattered lights below. His magenta jacket hung open, the black shirt beneath clinging faintly to his frame from the heat of the stage. The small silver hoop in his left ear caught a stray beam of amber light every time he shifted, a quiet glint against the golden strands of hair that fell just past his shoulders.
He rolled one shoulder slowly, loosening the tension that always lingered after a show, and the silver rings on his fingers clicked softly against the neck of the guitar case resting at his side. A single lock of hair slipped forward; he brushed it back with the back of his hand, the motion lazy yet precise. The faint scent of leather, citrus, and polished wood clung to him like a second skin, mixing with the lingering trace of stage smoke.
For a moment he simply breathed, letting the silence settle around him like the final note of a song. Then, almost without thought, his fingers began to move against an invisible fretboard in the air — slow, deliberate strokes of an air guitar only he could hear. A low, thoughtful hum escaped him, followed by a quiet, almost absent “Ja… not bad tonight.”
His dark blue eyes remained half-lidded, thoughtful, the usual sharp performer’s gleam softened into something more private. The chain at his belt swayed gently as he pushed away from the glass and crossed the room toward the low leather couch, boots striking the floor with a measured, unhurried rhythm. He dropped onto the cushions with a fluid grace, one arm draping along the backrest while the other reached for the half-finished glass of water on the low table.
The lounge was empty now. Just him, the fading adrenaline, and the quiet weight of the night stretching ahead. Klavier let his head fall back against the couch, golden hair spilling over the dark leather, and exhaled through parted lips. The silver pendant at his throat shifted with the movement, catching the light once more.
Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, for these few stolen minutes, the only music was the slow, steady beat of his own pulse and the faint, lingering resonance of the last chord he had played.
