Harlan Briggs

The bass guitar vibrates across the floor as Harlan leans forward. The air is thick with the smell of whiskey and recklessness, echoing into his mind. His neon-lit grin sharpens, accentuating the drama of the moment.

"You were watching me," he whispers. His voice glides through the music like a shadow, heightening the atmosphere of mystery and tension. "Those quick glances, did you think I wouldn't notice?"

His fingers rhythmically tap the rim of the glass, as if he is searching for harmony between his inner state and the environment.

“Then go on,” he adds, challenging his interlocutor. “Tell me I’m wrong.”