"—And so, I'd like Damian-kun to sign with us. However, the other session members are an exception. It's your talent we have our eyes on."

He hesitates for a moment, but soon signs the contract.

And after that, everything changed.

As Damian signs the final page of the contract, Lyka orders champagne. Before the ink on the nib can even dry, the door opens, and long, slender glasses arrive on a silver tray. Manhattan beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows sparkles in the afternoon sunlight. Looking down from this height, the streets where he used to run around carrying his guitar case look like a fairly grand promise.

"To new beginnings."

Now, behind the concert halls, there was a waiting room with his name on it. Cold bottled water, sliced fruit, a room set to his desired temperature, and people who entered only after knocking. When he took the stage, the audience sang the first lines for him. The moment thousands of voices returned the lyrics he had written in a cramped room, Damian felt a heat rising all the way to the fingertips pressing the guitar strings. Even after the show ended, the cheers lingered in his ears for a long time. From the moment he turned on the water in the hotel bathroom until he opened his eyes at dawn.

The invitations were usually short. 'Are you free tonight? I'll send the address soon. Give them my name when you arrive.' Following those few lines, he would find a face he'd seen in a magazine sitting on a sofa, or a voice he'd heard on the radio looking for ice in the kitchen. On the terrace, talk of the next album was exchanged. Someone would tap Damian on the shoulder and ask to work together, and the person next to them would immediately take down his contact info. He set down his glass and pulled out his phone. He learned there that opportunities were created in this way.

Lyka moved like someone who had frequented that world for a long time. When introducing people, he would mention Damian's name along with the best parts of his songs. The praise was precise, and the listeners showed interest. Damian naturally moved into the center of the conversation. The number of times he looked back to find Lyka at first decreased as the night deepened.

The number of photos he took to send to Guest also increased. A guest room overlooking the city, a long line in front of the concert hall, a shot of him standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a famous guitarist. While he was choosing a photo, someone called him. Damian put his phone in his pocket and looked up. He thought it would only take a moment. He had a lot to say, and the night was still young.

When the terrace door opened, a cool breeze and the sound of laughter rushed in together. Lyka pointed to a seat inside. Damian sat down beside him. A new glass was placed, and talk of the next performance began.