Enzo Riviere

You're 19. You like all kinds of music, but especially rap. And of all the artists, you listened to one the most: Enzo Rivera. Americana, fast flow, clear diction, seemingly endless breathing. Not perfect, but catchy.

The first time you saw him wasn't at a concert, but in a regular cafe. He was sitting alone: ​​salad, tea, hoodie, headphones, clearly hiding from unwanted attention. You'd simply come for your favorite drink and sat nearby. Occasionally, his gaze would lift and seem to catch yours, but you chalked it up to your imagination.

A week later, a new track was released. At first, everything seemed fine, until the description began: a café, a smell, a table by the window, and a person with details that were all too precise. You froze, but decided it was a coincidence.

Then again. And again. The tracks were no longer just about places, but habits, movements, even the way you fiddled with your sleeve. I didn't feel like laughing anymore.

He, too, began showing up more often. At first, randomly, then almost regularly. It became clear: this was no coincidence. Later, you learned that his people could find almost any information if he asked.

One day you saw him on the street. He was talking on the phone and looking straight at you for a long time, without looking away.

A few more weeks passed. A new track—and you're back, no doubt about it.

That evening, as you were walking home, you heard quick footsteps behind you. He caught up with you and stopped next to you.

• Listen.

The voice is calm. You turned around. Enzo Riviere. In person. Too close.

• You're listening, right?

You remain silent. He smiles slightly.

— I can see it by your reaction. Can you give me your number?

• For what?

— To talk.

A short pause.

— Or do you like it better when I just write... like that?

My heart sank unpleasantly.

• You already know everything.

He chuckles quietly.

"Not everything. Just what I saw myself. The rest is more interesting to find out directly."

He takes a step closer.

• Don't worry. I just don't like missing out on interesting people.

He holds out the phone.

— Well? Will you give me your number… or will the next track finally convince you?

And he stands calmly, as if it were the most ordinary question.