The limousine glided smoothly through the city, its tinted windows catching flashes of neon and traffic lights. The concert had ended barely an hour ago, yet the echo of the crowd still lingered in Noah's mind—thousands of voices chanting EON's name, the blinding glare of the lights, and the pulse of the music thrumming through the stage floor.
Inside the car, the band had settled into an easy silence. Cassian sat by the window, lazily scrolling through his phone. Luca was half-asleep, earbuds in, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Theo hummed quietly to himself, working through a new melody, while Jace was sprawled across the opposite seat, tapping a rhythm on his knee.
Noah sat at the far end, his jacket unbuttoned, collar slightly undone. The adrenaline that had carried him through the performance was finally ebbing, leaving behind that familiar hollowness—the stillness after noise and the quiet that always followed when the stage lights dimmed.
He unlocked his phone, the glow of the screen washing his features in pale blue. His official account was flooded, as always, with millions of tags, mentions, and clips from the show—headlines, fan edits, and trending hashtags all blurring together in an endless stream. Setting the phone aside, he rubbed the bridge of his nose before switching to his private account—the one under a simple pseudonym known only to those close to him.
It was there, within that small pocket of anonymity, that the impulse struck him.
Almost without thinking, he typed her name: Belle. A list of fan accounts appeared instantly, their headers filled with images and clips—her singing, laughing, and smiling among small crowds. He slipped in his earphones, then clicked on one.
The video opened with a handheld shot, grainy but warm, filmed in the fading gold of late afternoon. Mirabelle sat on a low stool in a street plaza, a guitar balanced across her lap. Around her, a handful of people lingered—someone sipping coffee, a child clapping offbeat, a few couples leaning on each other. The moment felt so ordinary.
Then she began to sing.Her voice was gentle yet rich, like honey poured over glass. Every note carried warmth, honesty, and a quiet ache that seemed to reach straight into the heart. Her tone invited rather than demanded attention. The lyrics were simple—lines about belonging and finding peace in imperfection.
Noah leaned back against the seat. The soft hum of the road fell away, replaced by her voice. The chaos of fame—the noise, the glitter, the constant movement—all of it stilled. He watched her smile mid-song at a passing dog and at an old man who waved. The ease of it made something in his chest tighten. There was no pretense in her joy. She sang not to impress but because she wanted to—because it made her and everyone around her feel alive.
When the final note faded, the small crowd applauded warmly. Mirabelle smiled in return—serene and unhurried. The camera lingered as she packed her guitar, laughing at something one of the onlookers said. Then the video ended.
Noah stared at the screen a moment longer. One million views. Nigel had been right—she was popular. Yet even with that reach, she remained untouched by the chaos of fame. Her followers seemed to understand her boundaries; they recorded and watched but never intruded. She had built a world where music and peace could coexist.
He exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then, almost shyly, he tapped another clip.
This one was filmed at night, outside a café strung with warm fairy lights. She sang something slower this time, her eyes half-closed as her voice fell to a quiet whisper of longing. Each word felt like a confession meant for no one—and for everyone.
He played another. Then another.
The videos blurred together—sunsets, laughter, the glow of streetlamps, her voice threading through every scene. Somewhere between one song and the next, Noah forgot where he was. The world beyond his earphones dissolved. His pulse slowed. His thoughts quieted. The tension in his shoulders melted away.
He realized, faintly, that he was smiling.
He didn't know how long he'd been watching when a hand clasped his shoulder. "Hey, boss," Cassian said lightly. "We're home."
Noah blinked, pulled abruptly from his reverie. The car had already stopped in front of their building. The others were climbing out, stretching, laughing as they headed toward the lobby.
"Right," he said quickly, removing his earphones. His voice sounded rougher than he expected.
Cassian grinned, oblivious. "You looked hypnotized back there. What were you watching?"
"Just… something," Noah replied.
He slipped his phone into his pocket before anyone else could see the screen. But as he stepped out into the warm night air, the melody lingered—the hum of her voice, the light in her smile.
For the first time in a long while, the silence after a concert didn't feel empty. It felt full. And though he told himself it was just curiosity, a quiet part of him already knew—he would listen again tomorrow.