The neon lights of the club didn’t stand a chance against the blue and red strobes pulsing outside. Inside, the bass of "Sa ia foc puscaria" thudded like a heavy heartbeat, but Dani Mocanu wasn’t looking at the crowd. He was looking at the door.

Because in his world, you can lock up the man, but you can’t cage the anthem.

He knew the rhythm of this life. One day you’re the king of the chart, draped in gold and surrounded by brothers who swear they’d die for you; the next, you’re hearing the heavy slide of a bolt and the hollow echo of a steel door.