Her fingers brush mine. Heat shoots up my arm, sharp, immediate.
Up close, her voice carries a low edge, textured, grounded. “Thanks for listening.”
I try to answer. but nothing comes out.
Useless.
Instead, I step back, letting the crowd swallow me again. The card clutched tightly in my fist. I don’t look at it until I’ve put space between us, slipping toward a quieter stretch near the edge of the market.
Hope Kristiansen.
Her name sweeps across the card in looping script. A phone number sits beneath it. A QR code in the corner.
I trace the letters with my eyes.
Back at my desk, everything seems smaller. The drone of hundreds of computers replaces the market’s chaos. My chair creaks as I drop into it. Someone laughs two rows over. Keys tap in uneven rhythm. A notification pings on my screen.
I turn the card over in my fingers.
Do it.
I grab my phone and scan the code. Hope’s world opens. The website’s a simple layout. No clutter. Photos from the market. Short clips of her performing. A schedule.
And one line near the bottom.
The Mission.
My stomach drops.
The Mission is a live music nightclub. Packed crowds. Superstar owner. A place I’ve heard about but would never visit.
Yet, the thought of seeing her under lights instead of gray sky does something to my soul.
No, it’s not just seeing her. More like stepping into her world. Crossing a line I’ve been standing behind all week.
Fear creeps in, familiar, grounding me back in my seat.
What would I do there?
Stand in a corner. Watch. Leave.
Same pattern. Same distance. Same outcome.
I lean back, staring at the screen.
No. Not this time.
I swivel in my chair and gaze across the row of desks. My team sits scattered, headphones on, locked into their screens, buried in their own code.
“Hey,” I call out.
A few heads lift.
“Anyone want to grab drinks tonight?”
A pause.
“Where?”
