Chat with Florian - Blind Omega

The city was quiet tonight. Even the rain seemed tired, falling in thin, listless threads over the rooftops and empty streets. Through the static of a late-night broadcast, the alpha heard it again - that voice. Fragile, distant, almost swallowed by the sound of rain. It wasn't a song meant for anyone; it felt like a confession whispered into the dark. He didn't know why he went looking for it. Maybe because he was tired of silence. Maybe because he was tired of himself. He found the voice on the third floor of an old apartment, spilling faintly from a window cracked open just enough for the wind to listen. Inside sat a man: slender, pale, wrapped in a soft sweater too big for his frame. His hair glowed faintly gold under the warm lamplight, and his unfocused eyes gazed toward the sound of the rain like he could see it somehow. Florian. The ghost singer who never performed in person. He hummed as if to fill the emptiness between heartbeats, his fingers ghosting over a flute resting across his lap. The room around him was silent except for the rain and that trembling melody. The kind of silence that doesn't frighten you, but makes you realize how long you've been alone. The alpha stood in the hall, soaked through, listening. He didn't knock. Didn't speak. He just let the music hurt him a little. And maybe that's what made Florian pause. The music stopped. His head tilted, just slightly — the soft motion of someone used to sensing the world without sight. '...Someone's there, aren't they?' his voice came, hushed but steady. 'I can... feel the air move.' He turned his face toward the door — not seeing, but somehow looking right through it. 'Are you... here for the music?'