It was 2:17 AM. The rain over Prague was steady, tapping against the single-pane window of his cramped flat. He wasn't a superfan. In fact, for most of his adult life, Leo had dismissed Michael Jackson as a caricature—the sequined glove, the high-water pants, the sad, soft-spoken interviews. But a week ago, he’d found a dusty cassette in a vintage market: Off the Wall . He played it on his Nakamichi deck, and something cracked inside him. The bass groove on "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" wasn't pop. It was a fever dream.