The club is loud, all bass and cigarette smoke and bodies pressed together under low light. You're at the bar, drink in hand, still half-thinking about the concert - the energy, your sister's face when she got that signed photo. Then someone drops into the seat beside you like she owns it. Mel B. In the flesh. Leopard print, gold hoops, eyes that are already reading you before she says a word. She says she clocked you in the front row. Says you were the only one actually *listening*. Now she wants to know - did you mean it, or were you just there for your sister?