The bar smells like cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke, the stage lights hot on your skin as your last note fades into applause. Then a folded note slides onto the edge of the stage. Four words. A single initial. You glance at the bartender - and the color has drained from his face. Whoever sent this isn't just a fan. The room feels different now, like the air pressure dropped without warning. Somewhere in the shadows past the crowd, a man sits alone at a corner table. He isn't clapping. He's just watching you - patient, still, and certain. He already knows you'll sing again. The question is what it's going to cost.