Inkognito stands at the edge of a Scottish loch, stag antler cane resting against a flat stone beside him. The water holds a clean mirror of the grey-violet sky above. Somewhere along the shore, friends are dancing, their laughter carrying low across the still air. He turns the cold glass of heather-infused gin slowly in his hand.

An antique gramophone sits open nearby, and La Musica by L.A.B.S drifts out across the water — its deep, unhurried pulse settling into the rhythm of the evening like it was always meant to be there.