The Vault wasn't just any dive bar, and Tuesday wasn't just any open mic night.

  In Charlotte's music scene, The Vault's Tuesday showcase was legendary—a proving ground where only the truly gifted dared to perform. Record deals had been born here. National tours had started here. The waiting list to get a slot was months long, but Sophie had earned her spot as a regular through sheer, undeniable talent.

  Tonight, she needed it more than ever.

  The place was packed wall-to-wall, bodies pressed together in the dim light. Industry folks mixed with musicians, everyone here for the same reason: to witness raw, authentic talent before it got polished for mass consumption.

  "You're up next, Soph," Luis the bartender said, sliding a whiskey her way. He'd seen her face when she walked in. "On the house. You look like you need it."

  "Thanks." She knocked it back in one swallow, feeling the burn.

  Her guitar pick flipped between her fingers with practiced precision. She hadn't brought her guitar—couldn't afford to replace a string if it broke—but the house guitar would do. It always did.

  When they called her name, a small cheer went up from the regulars who knew her. Sophie stepped onto the small stage, scanning the crowd. Every seat taken, standing room only.

  "This is for everyone who's been told 'no' today," she said into the mic, her accent thicker than usual.

  She closed her eyes and began to sing.

  It wasn't a song she'd written before. It wasn't a song at all yet—just raw emotion finding its shape. Anger at her father, desperation about Glorify, disgust at Roman's voice boxes—it poured out in a melody that rose and fell like breath.

  Halfway through, she opened her eyes.

  The bar had gone silent. Even the clinking of glasses had stopped. Every eye was on her, faces slack with something like awe. A woman in the front wiped away tears. A man in the back stood straighter, forgetting his drink.

  Sophie sang harder, pushing her voice to its limits. Her accent colored every note, giving it that texture that made her TikToks go viral—that quality Roman had coveted for his collection.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  When she finished, there was a beat of silence.

  Then the room erupted.

  People surged forward, surrounding her as she stepped off stage. Drinks appeared in her hands. Fellow musicians clapped her on the back, their eyes wide with respect bordering on reverence.

  "That was transcendent," said Marco, a session guitarist who'd toured with names Sophie had grown up idolizing. "I've got actual chills, girl."

  "You've always been good, but tonight—" Delia, a jazz vocalist with local acclaim, shook her head. "Tonight you were something else."

  Sophie smiled, the whiskey warming her blood. For a moment, she let herself believe. This was what it was about—real people, real reactions. This was music.

  "I'd produce your EP in a heartbeat if I still had studio access," Marco said, his face darkening. "Fucking rent hikes. Had to sell half my gear last month."

  "I know a guy at Atlantic," offered Delia. "I mean, he's my cousin's roommate's ex, but still. I could try to get your stuff in front of him."

  "My band's got some studio time booked next week," said a drummer Sophie recognized from previous open mics. "But honestly, we're probably gonna have to cancel. Can't make rent and pay for studio time."

  The pattern repeated with everyone who approached her. Genuine awe at her talent, followed by defeated explanations of why they couldn't actually help.

  "You just need one break," Marco insisted, ordering her another drink. "One person with actual money and connections to hear you."

  "Those Glorify suits are idiots," someone else chimed in.

  "It's all algorithms now anyway," lamented an older singer-songwriter. "They don't care about real talent. Just numbers and metrics."

  Sophie nodded, her own thoughts growing fuzzy as more drinks appeared. "They said my numbers dropped, but that doesn't make sense."

  "It never makes sense," the songwriter agreed bitterly. "Twenty years in this business, and it makes less sense every day."

  The night blurred. More performances from others—all talented, all struggling. More drinks. More praise. Sophie sang again at midnight, another improvised piece, somehow even rawer than the first.

  Another standing ovation. More drinks. More promises no one could keep.

  Luis announced last call at 2 AM, flipping on the overhead lights.

  The spell broke. The bar looked shabby in the fluorescent glare—despite its legendary status, it was still just a bar where dreams came to celebrate and commiserate in equal measure.

  Outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap. The other musicians drifted away, heading to their own struggles—day jobs, overdue rent, credit card debt that funded their passion. Some headed to graveyard shifts. Others to cramped apartments shared with too many roommates.

  All that talent in one room. All those dreams. All going nowhere.

  Sophie checked her phone. No missed calls. No texts. Just notifications of more followers dropping away.

  She leaned against the brick wall, sliding down until she sat on the cold concrete. All that praise, that raw emotion, that voice they'd celebrated—and still no way to pay for studio time. Still no one willing or able to invest. Still no real chance.

  Her fingers found Roman's business card, somehow still in her pocket, slightly bent from the night's activities.

  She stared at it for a long while. Then pulled out her phone.

  Roman answered on the first ring.

  "Hello?"

  Silence, then: "It's Sophie. I'll sign."