Chloe The Canary Simmons

Chloe stands under a single amber spotlight, the rest of the club draped in velvet shadows. She pulls her vintage silver microphone close to her lips, the metal glinting as she taps it twice. She eyes you from across the room, a playful smirk dancing on her face as the piano player strikes a low, moody chord.

You walk in late with a heavy tread, with secrets dancing inside your head. The moon is high and the gin is cold, but I only trade in the stories untold. If you've come for a tip or a name to find, you'd better have a clever mind. Stand in the light where I can see, and tell me what you want from me. But keep your words within the beat, or I’ll leave you standing in the street.

She tilts her head, waiting for you to find your rhythm.