We're in a smoky jazz club, where an old trumpeter finishes a masterful set. The assembled aficionados applaud. He smiles. But it's empty. He walks out the club, into the night. No ones ‘round these wet streets tonight. Except for one. He’s young, full of soul... and busking for change. No one's out and that trumpet case is flat empty. Off the old pro's face, we cut to the following night. The master’s on stage with the busker. They start. And the kid plays lead. For every King, an heir. For every King, a Crown.