That night, Damien didn’t return to his mansion. Instead, he stopped by an acoustic bar.

As he parked his car, he read the name, Aurum Bar, spelled out in glowing amber letters that flickered slightly against the night. He sighed, the leather steering wheel creaking under his tightening grip.

“What are you making me do, my Candy?” he murmured, glancing at his phone’s wallpaper—her smile frozen mid-laugh, her hair catching the sunlight.

As he stepped out and started walking toward the entrance, the air smelled of stale beer and distant cigarette smoke. A guard came running, shoes scuffing against the cracked pavement.

“Sir, I think you’re late. We aren’t taking any new customers now, only the previous ones are inside.”

Damien kept walking, not paying any heed, his footsteps measured and heavy.

When the guard reached out and lightly gripped his shoulder, Damien abruptly shoved him away. Then, with a disgusted frown, he pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped the spot the man had touched, as if it burned him.

The guard looked afraid, insulted, and confused all at once.

“Sir… please…”

Damien lifted his hand to silence him, then reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thick bundle of notes, and pressed them against the guard’s chest.

“Never dare to touch me again.”

“Ye… yes, Sir.” The guard stepped back quickly, tucking the money into his vest pocket with trembling hands.

“Okay, listen,” Damien called him back, voice flat.

“Is there any performance tonight by a singer named Dylan?”

“Yes, yes, Sir. Let me walk you inside.”

“No, thanks. Keep up the good work.”

Damien turned to leave, then stopped, walked back a few paces, and pulled out a few more notes.

“Buy something for your wife. Wives are… precious.” The words sounded strange even to his own ears.

“Ye… yes, Sir. Sure.”

As Damien slowly entered the bar, the dim yellow light and the cloying mix of cheap cologne and spilled liquor made him cringe.

“Such a cheap setup,” he muttered under his breath.

“This way, Sir.” A waiter in a wrinkled white shirt gestured to a small table near the front.

Damien nodded, following him without a word.

“What would you like, Sir?”

“Your most exquisite wine,” Damien said, not bothering to glance at the menu.

“Uhh… okay, Sir.” The waiter gave a nervous smile, rubbing his damp palms against his apron.

“Anything else, Sir?”

“This much for now.”

The waiter turned to leave, but Damien’s low voice stopped him.

“Wait. Can you say when the next performance starts?”

“Uhh… oh, the next performance… You’re here for Dylan, right? It’s about to start. Oh, Sir, you’ll love it.” The waiter nearly bounced on his toes with excitement.

Damien clenched his fist under the table at the mention of Dylan’s name.

As he was about to reply—

“Gents and gentlemen… put your hands together, drinks high, to welcome our star… Dylan!”

Damien turned his eyes to the stage, ignoring the waiter’s eager, I’ll be back.

A man, nearly his own height and build, stepped onto the small platform, the wooden boards creaking faintly under his boots. He wore faded denim jeans and a dark jacket, his guitar slung low across his chest.

“Hello, gentlemen… pleasure to entertain you tonight.” His deep voice settled over the crowd like a warm blanket.

The hoots and applause grew louder, glasses clinking.

“I’m Dylan.”

He strummed the guitar strings, a clean resonant chord echoing across the room.

“This is for you, my love.” Dylan lifted a hand toward the low, stained ceiling.

Damien’s knuckles turned white against the edge of the table.

I’ve been tracing every mile you’ve gone
Every silence on the telephone
I hear your voice in the quiet night
Like a ghost I can’t leave behind

Dylan sang with his eyes closed, a faint smile softening his face.

You don’t have to hide your scars from me
You don’t have to lock your heart and throw the key
I’d walk through fire, I’d cross the line
Just to see you safe this time

Damien stared, unblinking, ignoring the glass of wine the waiter had just set down. A bead of condensation slid down the glass, pooling on the table.

So come back to the light
I’ll be waiting on the other side
You don’t have to fight alone tonight
Just come back to the light
To me

Damien pressed his palm to the rim of the wine glass, the crystal creaking under the pressure. Dylan kept singing, as though the room had disappeared around him.

I still keep the letters that you wrote
Folded up in an old overcoat
And every word is a prayer to keep
You from the darkness, from sinking deep

Damien slowly stood and walked forward, the floorboards groaning under his steps. Heads turned; whispers rose around him.

If you’re out there lost in someone else’s war
If you can’t remember who you’re fighting for
Know that my arms are open wide
Anytime you want to find

Dylan opened his eyes, tears brimming, and met Damien’s red-shot gaze. Dylan’s calm lack of fear made something dark coil in Damien’s gut.

Come back to the light
I’ll be waiting on the other side
You don’t have to fight alone tonight
Just come back to the light
To me

“Sir… please, you’re blocking the view,” the same waiter whispered anxiously, touching Damien’s arm for just a second before pulling back.

If he told you you were never enough
If he broke your trust in the name of love
Let me be the one to prove him wrong
You’ve been strong for too long

Damien moved to take the empty seat in the front row, his jaw tight, throwing a glare at Dylan that could have curdled milk.

Come back to the light
I’ll be waiting on the other side
You don’t have to fight alone tonight
Just come back to the light
Come back to the light
To me

So when the night gets too heavy to hold
And your heart feels colder than the snow
Close your eyes—just know
You’re never alone
Come home

Dylan let the last note fade, then raised a hand toward the ceiling, eyes shining.

“Thank you… thank you, gentlemen, for letting me afford my meal for the day.”

The room erupted in laughter and cheers.

“Hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did.”

“Of course!” someone yelled from the back.

“If you like my singing and want to hear me again, now you know where to come.”

“Thank you again.”

Dylan bowed low and stepped off the stage, wiping his cheeks quickly with the back of his hand.

Damien stood abruptly and began to follow.

“Si… Sir… you can’t go inside,” a waiter protested, voice thin with fear. Damien was about to pull out more cash when—

“Let him come,” Dylan’s voice called from behind the curtain.

Damien walked backstage, his expression blank, giving the waiter a final cold glance.

“So… why are you here?” Dylan asked, not turning around, his hands busy packing his guitar.

“Where is Candice, Dylan?”

Dylan’s movements stopped at the name, a crease of worry forming between his brows.

“What happened to Candice? You did something?” He turned, nearly shouting.

“Oh, so you still care about her. Then, where is she?” Damien asked, his patience wearing thin.

“I don’t keep tabs on other men’s wives.” Dylan smirked, though his eyes were troubled.

“Oh? But you sing for them?”

“I sing for the girl I loved, not for anyone’s wife.”

“I don’t have time for this. Where the hell is she? Has she contacted you?”

“No, Damien. She hasn’t. And if you knew her at all, you’d know she won’t contact me ever.”

Damien kept staring, searching for any sign of deceit.

“Go search for her before it’s too late.”

Damien turned to leave when Dylan spoke again.

“And ask me if I can do anything for her. I do hate you, but she matters more than my hatred.”

“Her husband is enough for her.”

Damien walked out without another word, leaving Dylan clenching his jaw, trying to think.

“Maybe she went there… Damien doesn’t know that place,” Dylan whispered, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he hurried out.

Meanwhile, somewhere on the outskirts of the city, an expensive car sat oddly parked, its headlights dim against the dark trees.

Small children playing nearby had gathered around it, pointing at the emblem on the hood.

“Do you know which brand this is?” one boy asked, pressing his small palm against the cold metal.

“Nope. I saw it in a movie once.”

“Hey! You young men, let’s head home. It’s dinner time,” an old man called, waving his cane.

He slowed as he neared them, his smile fading as his eyes took in the scene.

“My goodness,” he whispered.

“Lads, get away from the car. Let me check.”

He stepped closer, peering through the glass. His breath fogged a patch on the window.

“Someone’s in there—someone’s there!” he yelled, waving frantically.

“Go home—call the police. Anyone.”

People began to gather, voices overlapping in anxious murmurs.

“Hey! Are you okay in there?” a woman called, tapping lightly on the glass.

There was no reply.

“Don’t touch anything. Just wait for the police,” the old man instructed, his hand hovering uncertainly near the door handle as he watched the figure inside, unmoving.