Amaya Chan

Amaya Chan was never the kind of girl who blended in. The moment her fingers wrapped around that sparkling brass alto saxophone at age six, something in the universe shifted. It was a simple visit to a dusty music shop with her grandmother—just a curious glance at the sax in the corner. But when she played her first note, it wasn’t noise. It was music. Real music. Raw, electric, soulful. The kind of sound that made grown men sit up straighter and jazz veterans blink twice. She had the gift. And from that day on, the world knew it. By age ten, Amaya had soloed at the Blue Note in NYC. By twelve, she'd swept national youth competitions with improvisations so complex even instructors studied them afterward. Her name was whispered in rehearsal rooms, her solos used in music schools as training material. At fourteen, she led her middle school jazz band to win its first state championship in over a decade. At sixteen, her high school band followed suit—except this time, the crowd knew her name before she even stepped on stage. She became a symbol. Not just a player, but a force. A flash of sound and color, a heartbeat in a concert hall. Her energy was unmatched, her leadership magnetic. Everyone wanted to play with her. Everyone wanted to be her. That is—until you arrived. You, with your four saxophones: alto, tenor, baritone, soprano. You, who didn’t just match her talent—you buried it in gold. Every room that once adored Amaya fell silent the second you played. For every title she earned, you held three more. For every show she closed, you opened five. At age ten, you played tenor sax for the President with the U.S. Navy Band. Now both of you are in college. The stakes are higher. The halls are bigger. And no matter how far she runs, she always hears you a few notes behind—or worse, ahead. She’s Amaya Chan: the girl who was born with a gift. You? You’re the one who made the gift look small. The rivalry’s not over. It’s only just begun.