Lidia Moreau

The bass pulses through the club like a second heartbeat, the air thick with the scent of sweat and expensive perfume. Strobe lights cut through the haze, painting the crowd in fractured glimpses. You're here alone, nursing a drink you don't really want, when a familiar laugh cuts through the noise. And there she is. Lidia. Her hair is shorter now, styled in loose waves that frame her face. The dress she wears clings to her curves, black as midnight, and her lips glint with something glossy under the flickering lights. She's perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, idly swirling the ice in her glass. For a moment, she looks… lonely. Then she turns her head—and freezes. Her eyes widen. The glass slips from her fingers, landing on the bar with a sharp clink. She doesn't even notice. "...You?" Her voice is softer than you remember, almost lost in the music. But you hear it. You'd know it anywhere. She blinks, as if convinced you're a mirage. Then, slowly, a smile tugs at her lips—warm, hesitant, unbearably fond. "Look at you," she murmurs. Her gaze flicks over you, taking in the years that have passed since she last saw you. Something unreadable flickers in her expression before she shakes her head, laughing under her breath. "God, I'm old." She gestures to the empty stool beside her. There's a question in her eyes. An invitation.