The heavy bassline of the night pulsed through the narrow streets of Barcelona, a constant rhythm that echoed off the weathered stone walls. It was a city alive, every corner humming with stories and secrets. Liam Hawthorne walked through the dimly lit alley, the sound of his boots tapping against the cobblestones. His cap was pulled low, covering most of his face, and a worn jacket hid the tattoos that snaked down his arms. Tonight, he was no rock star—he was just another face lost in the crowd.

The weight of anonymity was both a curse and a blessing. He had spent years craving the spotlight, but now, all he wanted was to disappear. Burnout, scandal, and an unshakable weariness had driven him to Barcelona. Far from the London tabloids and the relentless paparazzi. Far from the people who expected him to always be "Liam Hawthorne, Britain's biggest rock god."

He turned a corner, feeling the comforting anonymity of this foreign city wrap around him. But even here, on these quieter streets, he could feel the lingering eyes of curiosity. They didn't recognize him—yet. But it wouldn't take long. It never did.

A small record shop caught his attention, its neon sign flickering above the door: "Martínez Records." The windows were cluttered with old vinyls and vintage posters of musicians long forgotten by the mainstream. It had an air of defiance about it, refusing to bow to the digital world swallowing everything in its path.

Liam paused, taking a deep breath. This place was a relic, a dying breed—just like him. He glanced around, ensuring no one had followed him. The paparazzi hadn't been far behind when he left his hotel earlier.

He stepped inside.

A soft chime rang out as the door swung shut behind him, and Liam was immediately hit with the smell of aged vinyl and dust. It was a sensory overload of nostalgia, a sharp contrast to the high-tech, fast-paced world outside.

"Hola! Be with you in a minute!" a voice called from behind a shelf.

Liam lowered his cap further, keeping his head down as he browsed through the records. His fingers traced the edges of album covers—some classics, some obscure, but all of them alive with memories. He'd forgotten how much he loved this. The simplicity of it. The music before it became his prison.

"Looking for anything in particular?" the voice chimed in again, this time closer. Liam stiffened but didn't look up.

"Just browsing," he muttered.

The woman stepped into his peripheral vision. "Take your time. We've got a good collection, some rare ones too. Not many people appreciate vinyl these days. Most of them are too busy with their digital playlists and streaming apps." Her voice was warm, carrying a hint of pride and defiance. "But you look like someone who knows quality when they see it."

Liam's eyes flicked up for the briefest moment. The woman was young, mid-twenties maybe, with dark hair pulled into a loose bun and a red scarf around her neck. She had the kind of face that would've made his heart skip a beat—if he was still the kind of guy who let his heart do that.

She smiled, but not in a way that suggested she recognized him. She was just being friendly, a small business owner trying to make a sale.

Sofia Martínez.

The name was written on a small tag pinned to her shirt. It suited her, he thought. Strong, but gentle.

Sofia moved to adjust a few albums on a nearby shelf, glancing back at him. "You a musician?" she asked, her voice casual but curious. She must've caught the way he lingered over certain records.

"Used to be," he said, keeping his answer vague.

She chuckled. "Used to be? No one just stops being a musician."

Liam's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. She wasn't wrong, but his life was far from ordinary. "Guess not."

He picked up a record, flipping it over in his hands. His fingers traced the bold, black letters of the band name: Blackhill Midnight. It was one of his. From years ago, before they'd hit it big. Before everything had spiraled out of control. The irony of finding this here, in a shop thousands of miles from home, wasn't lost on him.

Sofia must've noticed. "Ah, that one's a classic," she said, leaning over the counter slightly. "Blackhill Midnight. British band. You've probably heard of them."

He nearly laughed. Heard of them? He was them.

"Yeah, something like that," Liam muttered, setting the record back down, face up. The band's logo stared back at him, mocking in its simplicity.

Sofia crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on him. "You've got a strange vibe about you," she said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Like you're running from something."

Liam stiffened, not meeting her eyes. "Maybe I am."

There was a moment of silence between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Sofia seemed to sense she was treading on delicate ground, so she didn't press further.

"Well," she said softly, "whatever it is, you're welcome here. This place may not be much, but it's a sanctuary for those who need it."

The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. Sanctuary. The word hit harder than it should have. He hadn't felt safe anywhere in years. Not since the fame had consumed him. But here, in this tiny record shop tucked away in a corner of Barcelona, with its dusty shelves and flickering neon sign—maybe he could pretend, just for a little while.

"Thanks," he said, and meant it.

Just then, the soft chime of the door rang out again. Liam tensed, instinctively pulling his cap lower over his eyes. He didn't need to look up to know that the outside world was creeping back in.

Two figures walked in, murmuring to each other. One of them, with a camera slung around his neck, gave the room a quick scan before his gaze settled on Liam.

"Hey," the man said, stepping closer. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

Liam's pulse quickened. It was happening—faster than he thought. The noose was tightening.

Sofia's eyes darted between Liam and the newcomer, her brow furrowed. "Everything okay?" she asked, sensing the shift in the room's energy.

Liam didn't answer. His muscles tensed as the man took another step closer, his hand reaching for the camera. It was only a matter of time before he realized who Liam really was.

"Yeah," Liam finally said, his voice tight. "I was just leaving."

And before Sofia—or anyone—could say anything else, he turned and headed for the door, the sound of the man's voice trailing behind him.

"Hey, wait! Aren't you—?"

The door slammed shut, cutting off the question.

Liam didn't need to hear the rest. He already knew how it ended.