Chapter 1
one
One Week Earlier
It’s finally lunch break at Hungry Llama Games and I’m off.
First stop, I grab food from the taco stand. Wolf it down and drift over to the edge of Pike Place Market to tuck myself beside a spinning. squeaky rack of postcards.
This is where I stand. Watch. Usually leave before I do anything stupid.
Her name’s Hope. She lives somewhere between a dream I can’t quite fathom and a reality I don’t know how to step into.
I hover as tourists crowd the walkway, voices stacking on top of each other. Gulls cut through the noise with sharp cries as they seek out scraps of food on the cobblestone. Fishmongers call out near the market entrance and a salmon arcs through the air to delighted applause.
All of it fades the second she starts to sing.
Hope claims the space near The Clock right in front of the fish stand in the middle of a whirlwind of tourists. The chaos seems to bend around her.
Her guitar rests against her body, worn smooth in places, edges nicked and scratched from years of use. Her fingers move across the strings with precision, each chord landing with intent. No hesitation. No searching. Muscle memory and instinct working together.
Her voice carries.
Not louder than everything else. Stronger. It threads through the noise and pulls people in. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Footsteps slow. Strangers turn their heads and drift closer, drawn in without realizing why.
I shift my stance, trying to look away, to give myself a second of distance. It lasts maybe half a breath until my focus snaps right back to her.
A faded, patched denim jacket hangs loose over her shoulders. Her jeans cling to long legs, torn open at the knees. Black tights stretch beneath, one laddered line running down her shin. Boots hit the cobblestone in steady rhythm, heel striking in time with the beat she sets.
Every part of her seems comfortable. Lived in. Nothing’s polished.
Hope’s absolutely perfect.
A strand of dark hair falls across her face.
She doesn’t push it back. Keeps playing.
Keeps singing. The rest spills down her back in a wild sweep, catching light when the clouds shift overhead.
Her eyes close as she climbs into a higher note.
Her fingers press harder into the strings.
The sound lifts, stretches, fills the space until the market noise drops away and leaves only her voice.
Something shifts inside me. Not a thought. Not even a feeling I can name.
A pull. Deep. Unavoidable.
She drops back into the verse, voice rougher now, textured. People lean in closer. A couple near the front stands frozen, hands clasped together. Someone raises a phone. A child sits cross-legged on the ground, staring up at her with complete focus.
I’ve been here every day this week.
Same time. Same place. Same distance.
I know the pattern of her set. I know which songs make her shut her eyes. Which ones bring a faint lift to her mouth, there for a second before it disappears. I know the way her left hand shifts during the bridge of the third song, a quick slide, a turn of her wrist, always perfect.
I can see everything, yet there’s nothing I can touch.
The gap between those two things sits heavy in my heart.
She stands a mere ten feet away, pouring herself into the street. I stay locked behind an invisible barrier, gawking.
A guy beside me drops cash into her open guitar case. She nods once without breaking rhythm. Keeps going.
I’m in awe of how Hope expresses herself to the world. My creativity remains behind the scenes, where I’ve always been more comfortable.
When I was a kid, my parents signed me up for softball, science fairs, and camp to bring me out of my shell. Other kids seemed to effortlessly mesh. I showed up, followed the rules, and counted the seconds until I could leave and get back to my solitary projects.
At some point, Mom and Dad stopped pushing and didn’t force me stay where I didn’t fit. I’ve always been grateful for their support and it’s served me well, for the most part.
Nowadays, I spend hours at Hungry Llama creating characters and storylines for some of the most popular games in the world. I’m the youngest team manager in the company because I intrinsically understand how a game flows.
My name isn’t front and center, it doesn’t need to be. I’m happy enough to be included in the credits.
Contrast me with Hope, who lays herself bare to this crowd, holding them here with nothing but her voice. Every piece of her life is carried in the words she sings. Pure magic.
Looking back, I finally understand what my parents were trying to give me when they signed me up for all of those activities. Not a different personality. More like the confidence to step forward when it mattered to me.
I want to talk to her. Walk up, say something clever, maybe even make her smile. The problem is, I can’t fathom how to take that first step.
She pushes into the final chorus, lifting her chin, driving the sound higher. Not chasing perfection. Chasing something real. Her voice shifts, edges fraying intentionally. Raw. Honest. No attempt to smooth it into polished perfection.
I’m disappointed when the last chord rings out. Time has flown by too fast and I won’t get to see her for an entire weekend.
Everyone else in the crowd is mesmerized. A brief pocket of silence opens and collapses under applause.
Clapping, whistles, voices rising all at once.
“Hope!”
Her name moves through the crowd, carried from one person to the next.
She dips her head, then crouches to adjust something near her amp. People surge forward. Phones come out. Questions fly.
“You have a page?”
“Where do you play next?”
“That was insane.”
She moves through it with ease. No rush. No nerves. She hands out small slips of paper, one after another, each person leaving with something tangible.
My pulse kicks up.
This is it. Walk over. Say something.
My feet stay planted.
Come on.
I force myself forward. One step. Then another. The crowd presses in, shoulders brushing mine, bodies shifting around me. The noise builds again, but it’s distant, muffled under the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
She looks up. Straight at me.
Everything slows.
Her eyes hold mine. Storm-gray. Steady.
My throat dries out.
She lifts a card between her fingers and extends it toward me.
For me.
I close the distance without thinking, my hand hovering for a fraction of a second before taking it.
Her fingers brush mine. Heat shoots up my arm, sharp, immediate.
Up close, her voice carries a low edge, textured, grounded. “Thanks for listening.”
I try to answer. but nothing comes out.
Useless.
Instead, I step back, letting the crowd swallow me again. The card clutched tightly in my fist. I don’t look at it until I’ve put space between us, slipping toward a quieter stretch near the edge of the market.
Hope Kristiansen.
Her name sweeps across the card in looping script. A phone number sits beneath it. A QR code in the corner.
I trace the letters with my eyes.
Back at my desk, everything seems smaller. The drone of hundreds of computers replaces the market’s chaos. My chair creaks as I drop into it. Someone laughs two rows over. Keys tap in uneven rhythm. A notification pings on my screen.
I turn the card over in my fingers.
Do it.
I grab my phone and scan the code. Hope’s world opens. The website’s a simple layout. No clutter. Photos from the market. Short clips of her performing. A schedule.
And one line near the bottom.
The Mission.
My stomach drops.
The Mission is a live music nightclub. Packed crowds. Superstar owner. A place I’ve heard about but would never visit.
Yet, the thought of seeing her under lights instead of gray sky does something to my soul.
No, it’s not just seeing her. More like stepping into her world. Crossing a line I’ve been standing behind all week.
Fear creeps in, familiar, grounding me back in my seat.
What would I do there?
Stand in a corner. Watch. Leave.
Same pattern. Same distance. Same outcome.
I lean back, staring at the screen.
No. Not this time.
I swivel in my chair and gaze across the row of desks. My team sits scattered, headphones on, locked into their screens, buried in their own code.
“Hey,” I call out.
A few heads lift.
“Anyone want to grab drinks tonight?”
A pause.
“Where?”
I glance at my phone again. At her name.
“The Mission.”