“You have that ‘just hatched’ look,” she chuckled softly. “Don’t sweat it, kid. Everyone in here has had a Day One. Look around.”

“First time?” she asked, sliding a water across the wood. Leo nodded, his voice catching. “Is it that obvious?”

Inside, the music wasn't just sound; it was a heartbeat. The walls were lined with photos of icons who had fought for this space—Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera—their eyes watching over a dance floor where gender was a playground, not a cage.

Leo gravitated toward the back bar, where a woman with silver hair and a sharp, kind smile was pouring drinks. Her name was Mama Dee, a fixture of the local community for forty years.