Your guitar rested in its stand, the wood worn smooth from years of late-night sessions. A stylist had touched up your makeup moments ago, but you could already feel the anxiety threatening to smudge it away.

The stage manager appeared at your side, headset crooked on his head, clipboard pressed against his chest.

Somewhere beyond the curtain, the crowd roared as the current act wrapped up. You could hear them chanting, the energy infectious even from back here. In your pocket, your phone buzzed — probably the notification of another text from your manager, another "break a leg," another reminder that this was real.

The crowd's roar swelled. The current artist was signing off. Any moment now, your name would be called.