The internet café in Sorochinsk was a grimy little hole, the kind of place where the air smelled like stale beer and burnt dreams. Neon lights flickered over cracked linoleum floors, and the hum of outdated computers buzzed like a swarm of angry hornets. Vika, all of nineteen and brimming with restless energy, was slouched over a keyboard so sticky it might as well have been glued to her fingertips. Her chipped black nails clicked with furious intent as she scrolled through El Capitxn’s social media feed, her hazel eyes glinting with a mix of obsession and desperation. A tower of empty beer cans teetered precariously beside her, and a haze of cigarette smoke curled around her like a possessive lover.
“Goddamn, look at this man,” she muttered to herself, zooming in on a photo of the South Korean producer and songwriter. El Capitxn, thirty-five and dripping with a whiskey-soaked charm, smirked at the camera in a way that made her Taurus stubbornness flare with a need she couldn’t quite name. “Those cheekbones could cut glass. And those hands? Bet they know how to play more than just a keyboard.”
She snorted at her own thirst, taking a drag from her cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke that mingled with the café’s already suffocating atmosphere. Her screen glowed with his latest post—some cryptic caption about “late-night melodies” accompanied by a shot of him in a dimly lit studio, headphones slung around his neck. With 522,000 followers, the man was a digital god, and Vika was just another disciple worshipping at the altar of his Instagram.
“You’ve been staring at that screen for six hours, Vika. You gonna marry it or what?” came a sharp voice from behind the counter. It was Lena, the café’s resident snark machine and night-shift worker, a wiry woman in her late thirties with a perpetual scowl and a knack for cutting through bullshit. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her faded Metallica tee clinging to her frame as she chewed on a toothpick.
“Piss off, Lena. I’m conducting important research,” Vika shot back without looking up, her lips curling into a smirk. “This is El Capitxn we’re talking about. A Virgo with the voice of a fallen angel and the kind of smirk that could make a nun reconsider her vows.”
Lena barked out a laugh, shaking her head as she wiped down the counter with a rag that looked dirtier than the surface itself. “Research, my ass. You’re drooling over a man who doesn’t even know you exist. What’s the plan, huh? Gonna fly to Seoul and throw yourself at his feet? ‘Oh, El Capitxn, take me, I’m yours!’” She mimicked a dramatic swoon, clutching her chest for effect.
Vika rolled her eyes, spinning her chair to face Lena with a glare that could’ve melted steel. “First of all, I don’t throw myself at anyone. If anything, he’d be the one begging for a taste of this.” She gestured to herself—torn fishnets, a cropped leather jacket, and a mess of dark hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days. “Second, I’m not some hopeless romantic. I just… appreciate talent. And abs. And that jawline. Christ, have you seen it?”
Lena snorted, tossing the rag over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a real connoisseur. Meanwhile, you’re stuck in this shithole of a town, chugging cheap beer and fantasizing about a guy who’s probably got a harem of groupies prettier than both of us combined. Get a grip, girl.”
“Wow, thanks for the pep talk, Mother Teresa,” Vika snapped, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. She turned back to the screen, scrolling mindlessly until a post from El Dorphin, his official fanbase, caught her attention. Her breath hitched. “Holy shit. Lena, get over here. Now.”
Lena groaned but ambled over, leaning over Vika’s shoulder with a skeptical squint. “What now? Did he post a shirtless pic? You gonna faint?”
“Better. It’s a contest,” Vika said, her voice low and intense, like she’d just uncovered buried treasure. “They’re picking one fan to fly to Seoul and meet him. Like, in person. Face-to-face. I could breathe the same air as him, Lena. Maybe even touch him. Accidentally, of course.”
Lena cackled, slapping Vika’s shoulder hard enough to make her wince. “You? Meet El Capitxn? You can’t even walk straight after two beers, and you think you’re gonna charm some international heartthrob? What’re you gonna do, serenade him with your off-key shower singing?”
Vika smirked, undeterred, her mind already racing with reckless possibility. “Laugh all you want, but I’m entering this thing. I’ve got nothing to lose. Sorochinsk is a dead end—I’m one bad decision away from becoming a cautionary tale in this dump. If there’s even a sliver of a chance to get out, I’m taking it.”
Lena raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but intrigued. “Alright, hotshot. What’s the contest? Gotta write him a love letter? Send him a lock of your hair? Maybe a nude? Bet that’d get his attention.”
“Very funny,” Vika deadpanned, clicking on the contest details. “It’s a video submission. Fans have to perform one of his tracks—sing, dance, whatever. Best one wins. Easy.”
“Easy?” Lena scoffed, crossing her arms again. “Vika, I’ve heard you sing. It’s like a cat getting strangled. And your dancing? Last time I saw you move, you tripped over a chair and blamed gravity.”
Vika shot her a withering look, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Ye of little faith. I’ve got charm, alright? Charm and… liquid courage.” She grabbed another beer can, popping it open with a hiss before taking a long swig. “Besides, it’s not about being perfect. It’s about standing out. And trust me, I know how to make an impression.”
Lena watched, half-amused, half-exasperated, as Vika rummaged through her beat-up backpack for her phone. “You’re actually doing this. Right now. In the middle of this shitty café, surrounded by empty cans and cigarette butts. You’re a disaster, you know that?”
“Disasters are memorable,” Vika quipped, setting up her phone on a wobbly stack of coasters. She hit record, took a deep breath, and launched into a rendition of El Capitxn’s sultry track “Midnight Pulse.” Her voice was rough, raw, and a little off-key, but there was a fire in it—a desperate, unpolished passion. Halfway through, she attempted a dance move, a clumsy spin that sent her beer can flying, amber liquid splashing across the table mid-chorus. She didn’t stop, though, just laughed through the lyrics, owning the chaos with a middle finger to the camera.
Lena doubled over, clutching her sides as tears of laughter streamed down her face. “Oh my God, Vika, you’re a trainwreck! That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. He’s gonna watch that and file a restraining order!”
“Shut up,” Vika growled, though she was grinning as she stopped the recording. She played it back, wincing at the beer spill but cackling at her own audacity. “It’s… unique. Memorable. He’ll remember me, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.”
“You’re delusional,” Lena said, wiping her eyes. “But hey, at least you’ve got balls. I’ll give you that.”
Vika leaned back in her chair, cigarette dangling from her lips as she uploaded the video to the contest site. Her heart thudded with a mix of dread and exhilaration, her finger hovering over the “submit” button. “Here goes nothing. Or everything. Who knows?”
Lena peered over her shoulder, shaking her head. “You’re insane. But if by some miracle you win, you better smuggle me into your suitcase. I wanna see this Korean god for myself.”
“Deal,” Vika said with a smirk, finally clicking “submit.” The confirmation popped up on the screen, and she let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, running a hand through her messy hair. “Well, fuck me. I did it. Now I just wait for destiny to either kiss me or kick me in the ass.”
She stubbed out her cigarette, the smoke curling lazily upward as she stared at the screen, a flicker of hope sparking beneath her usual cynicism. Maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous stunt could be the thing that changed everything.
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