Prologue.
The concert hall was packed, as always. Some people were new, some were devoted fans, others just dragged along by their loved ones or friends. But, one way or another, they gathered here in one big crowd which barely understood anything about what they came to see.
He couldn’t blame them. Not really. Not everyone was born to understand.
A static hum of anticipation hung in the air — tense, expectant — ready to crack open at any moment. Light roamed in restless flashes, carving faces out of the dark, one by one, as if uncertain whether to reveal or to conceal. The air was thick, charged — saturated with heat, sweat, and awe.
Finally, everyone quieted down, breaths held in anticipation.
He moved closer.
The lights dimmed, and then there was shy applause – the most anticipated reaction that people thought would lure the artist out. Here, there, in the back, until everyone was doing the same thing.
As the sound started to die down, the man of the hour went out onto the stage. He moved easily, like he was on a walk in the park, while a good amount of the crowd went ballistic, the sound of their excitement deafening for a second. He seemed to be almost bored by it when he reached the mic holder in the center of the stage.
He was dressed flashily, of course. Wide shirt sleeves adorned with golden embroidery, the V-cut with lace coverage teasing with a sliver of chest, high-rise trousers. The light, see-through robe thrown over it glistened with small crystals reminiscent of stars.
The music started, an old pipe sound taking everyone in the audience to the feel of the deserts from the fairy tales.
The singer waited, his slender fingers sliding over the customized silver mic, caressing it like a lover.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and began.
The first note did not seem to come from his mouth.
It seemed to rise through the floor.
A low, dark vibration rolled beneath the seats, through the legs of the chairs and into the bones of everyone listening, settling in their sternums.
People stopped whispering, the whole hall growing quieter as they all leaned in to hear better.
Then the note changed.
Not louder.
Higher.
Higher still, until the sound had become something so clear and bright that several people in the front rows looked toward the ceiling.
And his lips had barely moved during this.
For one impossible second, there were two voices. One remained beneath them, low and warm and almost unbearably human. The other climbed above it, thin as silver.
They belonged to the same mouth.
The same man.
The same breath.
Someone in the balcony whispered, “How?”
Even those who had heard it before, in the recordings, couldn’t say that it was the same. Recordings were polished, tuned maybe to sound more pleasant to the ear, but this, the real thing? It tore at their chests and crawled inside, settling there and making them watch in silent awe.
Those who were planning to film throughout the whole concert lowered their phones. Someone cried, overwhelmed by the sound of two tones intertwining in one body.
Someone next to him laughed nervously, not knowing how else to react.
The man, meanwhile, watched the singer with rapt attention, his gaze following every move. Not the hands, not the eyes — he watched the throat. Watched as the tendons tensed and muscles flexed beneath the fair skin, watched those rose-red lips move as the song went on.
“That’s not what he sounds like,” he whispered.
No one in the audience noticed him turning and slipping away through the crowd.
