The track was a monster, a Kwaito anthem that had already claimed the streets. But tonight, the song felt different.

"Don't go over there," Oskido cautioned, though he was smiling. "That’s the thing about writing about sirens, Kalawa. Sometimes they hear you calling."

The bassline of "Jezebel" didn't just play; it breathed. In the heart of Hillbrow, where the neon lights flickered like dying stars, Professor sat at the back of a dimly lit club, his signature bucket hat pulled low. Beside him, Oskido was nodding to a rhythm only he could truly feel, his fingers ghosting over an imaginary mixer.

"You hear that?" Oskido leaned in, his voice barely audible over the thumping speakers. "The way the crowd shifts when the hook hits? They aren’t just dancing. They’re looking for her." "Jezebel," Professor murmured, a smirk playing on his lips.

Oskido laughed, sliding his headphones on. "She always wins, Professor. That's why we named it after her."