Elias needed that track. He needed it for the verse he had been writing since Sarah left—the words that were stuck in his throat, waiting for the right vibration to shake them loose.

The neon sign above the "Open 24 Hours" diner flickered, casting a rhythmic blue shadow across Elias’s cracked laptop screen. He sat in the back corner booth, the smell of burnt coffee and rain-slicked pavement clinging to his hoodie. He had exactly 3% battery left and a heavy heart.

85%. The laptop fan whirred like a jet engine. He clicked the green button just as the screen went black. The battery died.

But as he walked toward the subway, he started humming. The beat was already in his head, downloaded into his bones, produced by Ash Ley, and finished by the cold, midnight air.