Just as he went to lock the screen, the diner door swung open. A group of teenagers walked in, one of them holding a phone aloft. The tinny, energetic beat of Ionuț’s own voice filled the room. The kid was blasting the new mix.

"Yo, this beat is fire!" one of them shouted, beginning to pull off a clumsy manele dance step between the tables. "Who is this Ionuț? He’s got soul."

The neon sign above “La Nea Mitu’s” diner flickered in rhythm with the bass thumping from a battered BMW 3-Series parked out front. Inside, the air smelled of strong espresso and cheap tobacco. Ionuț sat at the corner booth, staring at a crumpled five-lei bill—the only occupant of his wallet.