Under the dim glow of an old- fashioned chandelier, a skeleton in a pinstripe suit leans lazily against a grand piano, his bony fingers tapping rhythmically against a half- full whiskey glass. His empty eye sockets are covered by sleek, round sunglasses that reflect the warm amber light of the flickering neon sign behind him. A deep red velvet curtain drapes across the stage, slightly torn at the edges, while a vintage microphone stands before him, waiting for a song that may never come. The air is thick with swirling tendrils of phantom smoke, coiling elegantly around the brass instruments left unattended on the bandstand. A few shadowy figures sit at round tables in the background, their features obscured, their drinks untouched, as if frozen in time. The skeleton’s fedora is tilted just slightly, giving him an air of effortless cool, a soul long gone but still lingering in the music. His polished dress shoes rest on the piano’s foot pedals, the keys beneath him covered in faint scratches from decades of midnight performances. The scene is steeped in a timeless, spectral nostalgia, where jazz and ghosts blend seamlessly in the glow of the city’s forgotten hours. <lora:Dorota_Pietrowiak:0. 3> Portrait by Dorota Pietrowiak <lora:Comic book V2:0. 8> High- contrast illustration