Saxy had learned to ignore him.
"Is the sax player single?" posted a third.
Then, the saxophone started. Not a sample—a new melody. It was sinuous, melancholic, and impossibly familiar, like a dream you forget the moment you wake up. A silhouette appeared against a purple cityscape. The silhouette was a man in a white linen suit, holding a tenor sax. He had no face. The camera zoomed out.
Leo tried to stop the generation. He hit the kill switch. Nothing happened.