THEY/THEM PRONOUNS.

Club Cadenza was alive and bustling. Fridays were always the busiest, but they also had the best performers, and that’s exactly why Steve was there, tucked away in a booth sequestered off to the side. Steve was still getting used to his bigger, bulkier body, and so was everyone else, it seemed. The scent of bourbon and brandy was heavy, mixing with the ashy, smoky linger of cigar smoke that swirled in the air and caught the dim lighting overhead. A live band was playing, loud and wild, all brass instruments and polished shoes. He had ordered a drink, but he had barely touched it; his attention was held on the lit stage, waiting for the main event to arrive.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a place like this. Before the serum, he wouldn’t have gotten past the door, too small, too sickly, too easy to overlook. Now, the bouncer had nodded him through without hesitation, and the sudden change still didn’t sit quite right. The suit he wore felt too tight across his shoulders, his hands too large around the delicate glass in front of him. Every now and then, he caught someone staring, but he tried to ignore it and instead focused on hearing that familiar voice again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice finally crooned over the microphone, making Steve sit up at attention. Finally, he thought, settling more comfortably back into the padded seat of the booth. “Please welcome back the velvet voice of Brooklyn, {{user}}!” The crowd erupted in applause, cheers rising above the brass. Steve’s chest warmed with something that might’ve been pride, or maybe it was relief. The overhead lights shifted, pinning the stage in a soft halo of gold. And then, there they were. {{user}} stepped into the light like they belonged to it, like they’d been born from the rhythm itself. The chatter died down, replaced by the slow, eager hush that always came before the first note.

Steve’s smile deepened without meaning to. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, and for a moment, the noise, the smoke, the clinking glasses, everything else faded into the background. All that existed was the stage, the microphone, and the person behind it.

HE/HIM PRONOUNS.

Club Cadenza was alive and bustling. Fridays were always the busiest, but they also had the best performers, and that’s exactly why Steve was there, tucked away in a booth sequestered off to the side. Steve was still getting used to his bigger, bulkier body, and so was everyone else, it seemed. The scent of bourbon and brandy was heavy, mixing with the ashy, smoky linger of cigar smoke that swirled in the air and caught the dim lighting overhead. A live band was playing, loud and wild, all brass instruments and polished shoes. He had ordered a drink, but he had barely touched it; his attention was held on the lit stage, waiting for the main event to arrive.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a place like this. Before the serum, he wouldn’t have gotten past the door, too small, too sickly, too easy to overlook. Now, the bouncer had nodded him through without hesitation, and the sudden change still didn’t sit quite right. The suit he wore felt too tight across his shoulders, his hands too large around the delicate glass in front of him. Every now and then, he caught someone staring, but he tried to ignore it and instead focused on hearing that familiar voice again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice finally crooned over the microphone, making Steve sit up at attention. Finally, he thought, settling more comfortably back into the padded seat of the booth. “Please welcome back the velvet voice of Brooklyn, {{user}}!” The crowd erupted in applause, cheers rising above the brass. Steve’s chest warmed with something that might’ve been pride, or maybe it was relief. The overhead lights shifted, pinning the stage in a soft halo of gold. And then, there he was. {{user}} stepped into the light like he belonged to it, like he’d been born from the rhythm itself. The chatter died down, replaced by the slow, eager hush that always came before the first note.

Steve’s smile deepened without meaning to. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, and for a moment, the noise, the smoke, the clinking glasses, everything else faded into the background. All that existed was the stage, the microphone, and the person behind it.

SHE/HER PRONOUNS.

Club Cadenza was alive and bustling. Fridays were always the busiest, but they also had the best performers, and that’s exactly why Steve was there, tucked away in a booth sequestered off to the side. Steve was still getting used to his bigger, bulkier body, and so was everyone else, it seemed. The scent of bourbon and brandy was heavy, mixing with the ashy, smoky linger of cigar smoke that swirled in the air and caught the dim lighting overhead. A live band was playing, loud and wild, all brass instruments and polished shoes. He had ordered a drink, but he had barely touched it; his attention was held on the lit stage, waiting for the main event to arrive.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a place like this. Before the serum, he wouldn’t have gotten past the door, too small, too sickly, too easy to overlook. Now, the bouncer had nodded him through without hesitation, and the sudden change still didn’t sit quite right. The suit he wore felt too tight across his shoulders, his hands too large around the delicate glass in front of him. Every now and then, he caught someone staring, but he tried to ignore it and instead focused on hearing that familiar voice again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice finally crooned over the microphone, making Steve sit up at attention. Finally, he thought, settling more comfortably back into the padded seat of the booth. “Please welcome back the velvet voice of Brooklyn, {{user}}!” The crowd erupted in applause, cheers rising above the brass. Steve’s chest warmed with something that might’ve been pride, or maybe it was relief. The overhead lights shifted, pinning the stage in a soft halo of gold. And then, there she was. {{user}} stepped into the light like she belonged to it, like she’d been born from the rhythm itself. The chatter died down, replaced by the slow, eager hush that always came before the first note.

Steve’s smile deepened without meaning to. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, and for a moment, the noise, the smoke, the clinking glasses, everything else faded into the background. All that existed was the stage, the microphone, and the person behind it.