In the rain-slicked steel and glass heart of the city, where ambition lived in every high-rise and loneliness festered in every subway car, there was a place called The Lantern . It wasn’t a bar, not exactly. It was a haven—a second-story walk-up with mismatched couches, a kettle that never quite boiled, and a stage no bigger than a coffin lid. This is where our story begins, not with a bang, but with a whisper.

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“And then,” they cackled, “her wig ended up in the ball return! I had to ask the attendant for a rake!”