Near midnight at The Blue Harbour, one of Virbank's classier joints. Smoke drifted up to the rafters and patrons cheered loudly as they spilled beer all over the grimy, sticky floors. Cheren grimaced as he hung his hat on the rack by the door. Hopefully this job'd pay enough to cover dry cleaning—he'd have to scrub for months to get the smell out of his clothes. He took a seat at what looked like one of the cleaner tables, still cringing when he came in contact with the stained fabric. This 'Roxie' better mean business.
Fifteen minutes later and the seat across from him was still empty, his watch ticking ever closer to the big twelve right at the top. Sure, he'd come early, but punctuality was expected of someone in his profession. He was still staring down at his timepiece, willing the second hand to make its rounds quicker when he became vaguely aware of the crushed blue curtains the place was famous for sliding open, mostly because the drunk next to him slammed his glass down on the table, a few drops getting on his jacket. He cringed again while the band struck up—some low swinging song, nothing he was too fond of—and looked up just in time to see the source of all the commotion. He had to adjust his glasses to make sure it wasn't just a glare.
There, contrasting the black star-painted wall behind her, was a pale vision of beauty, nearly completely washed out by the spotlight. She shimmered like a mirage in a white sequinned dress. He nearly forgot his filthy surroundings for a second, caught in the gaze of her light blue eyes, her ghostly figure swaying slightly to some tune he'd never heard. "Here she is," said some guy in a loud jacket with a pencil-thin moustache he couldn't care less about, "Virbank's own diamond in the rough—the incomparable Roxie!"
Cheren would've fallen out of his chair from shock if he wasn't stuck to it. Her? This was Roxie? Feeling hot under the collar, he stuck a finger in the knot of his tie, leaning forward to soak in the music. The name didn't suit her. Too short. Too informal. She sung like an angel, shrouded in all the holy light of a gospel sermon. He was entranced, and all too quickly his fifteen minutes were up.
When her last song ended, he was at a loss with what to do with himself. He could swear she looked straight at him during the closing number. Beckoned him to follow her backstage, even.
He shrugged to the benefit of no one in particular. A gentleman never refused a good invitation.