Backstage, the wings were a tight squeeze of folding chairs, prop tables, and students in white shirts counting beats under their breath. A stagehand in black carried a clipboard and kept whispering the same thing over and over: two minutes.

Y/n's solo was fourth on the program. The third act. The one Mr. Ashford had called, out loud, in front of the entire choir, the reason people bought tickets.

At the front of the auditorium, in the third row, four seats in the middle of the center section had been held since six o'clock. A handmade sign taped to the backs read RESERVED — WAYNE. An usher had asked twice about it already, eyeing the empty chairs.

The house lights flickered once. Twice. The murmur dipped.

The heavy red curtain stirred. Through the gap, only barely, Y/n could see that third row. Four empty seats. An usher standing at the end of the row, checking the doors, one hand on her radio.

The doors at the back of the house were closed, and no one was coming through them.