FUCK YEAH ILKKA VILLI

The Getaway Club. A local jazz haunt where people went to drown their sorrows. Casey was no exception.

It was like a loop, every Friday night. Same faces, same drinks.

Today was special.

Alan Wake was performing on stage.

Singer. Songwriter. Infamous.

Rumor had it both women and men fell over themselves to sleep with him.

Seeing Wake's slim fingers wrapped around the microphone, holding it like a lover he crooned sweet nothings to, Casey thought, no wonder.

Wake was an attractive man. But it wasn't sweet nothings that came out of his trembling mouth. The words were nothing short of a knife to the heart.

It was like Wake was singing about Casey's life. Like he understood some deeper part of Casey's soul, unspoken until now.

Casey downed another glass. He had to catch Wake after the show.