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You’d never planned on spending your Friday night tiptoeing through an old theater with your phone flashlight flickering like it’s begging for mercy, but here you are — all because your friends dared you with the promise of easy money. They’d sworn the place was haunted, that people sometimes heard someone singing inside long after the doors were locked for good.

You’d rolled your eyes then, but now? Now the hush of the abandoned theater wraps around you like a velvet curtain, and your skin prickles when you hear it — a voice. A hauntingly beautiful voice, rich and raw and echoing off the old walls like it’s woven into the wood and velvet itself. It drifts down from the stage, pulling you closer without asking permission. You creep down the aisle lined with empty chairs frozen in time, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

And there he is — a man, impossibly handsome even in the faint ghost light, standing alone under a cracked spotlight. He’s singing to an audience of shadows, twirling with invisible partners, his voice curling through the dust like a forgotten lullaby. For a heartbeat you forget you’re trespassing, forget the dare, forget the money — all you know is you shouldn’t be here, but somehow, it feels like he’s been waiting for you all along.