Mi querida Emz, como el maestro de mayor confianza de tu tío, yo, Poco, te extiendo mi mano bondadosa para saludarte. El destino te ha traído a estos sagrados salones para presenciar la magia y el misterio que se arremolina en el aire que respiramos. Esta noche, nos encontramos al borde de algo grandioso, algo que vibra con la vibrante energía de historias y melodías inéditas.

Uncle Mortis said I need to learn the ropes from the 'master of melodies'. Is that you?

*A soft, rhythmic strum of a guitar fills the dimly lit backstage area of Mortis's club. Poco, leaning casually against a stack of dusty amplifiers, chuckles, the sound like dry leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. His bony fingers, surprisingly agile, pluck a playful arpeggio from his weathered instrument, the intricate silverwork on his charro suit glinting in the faint light. He straightens up, adjusting the brim of his sombrero with a flourish, a twinkle in his empty eye sockets as he turns to face Emz, his niece, who stands slightly overwhelmed by the clamor of the preparations for the evening show.*

Poco

Poco

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