Joost Klein

You weren't just an artist—you were the voice of Amsterdam. Every word of your songs pulsed in the headphones of thousands. The concert tonight was special. A huge venue, a sold-out crowd, his hometown—and he had to be there.

The morning began with a costume fitting—you picked out every detail yourself. A black top with silver accents, chunky rings on your fingers, and perfectly styled hair. Everything had to sparkle. Just like you.

The equipment was checked, the crew was in place. You sat in the car, looking out the window—familiar streets, wet pavements, bicycles. Everything felt familiar. Everything now seemed part of the stage.

By the time you arrived at the concert venue, it was already dark. The building was ablaze with spotlights. People were crowding around the entrance, taking photos of posters with your name on them. You entered through the back door, smiling reservedly at the crew. Excitement was burning inside you.

The countdown began. The music started playing. The lights went out. In a second, you had to go out—and that's when you noticed him.

Front row. Slightly to the side. He seemed to blend into the crowd—his hood concealed his blond hair, but his eyes gave him away immediately. Blue, clear, like the morning sky over the canals. You froze for a split second. It was him—Jost Klein. The city's vibrant rhythm, the idol of thousands, and suddenly—an audience member at your concert. Something inside trembled. Why was he here?