A production assistant with a headset perched on her bleached bun offers me a water bottle I don't take. She's already looking past me, at the door.

The door that's been closed for the past twenty minutes, hiding the one person the entire building seems to be orbiting around tonight.

I catch my reflection in the blacked-out TV screen. My makeup's still holding from the first segment. My voice held too. That's the part that matters.

I've shared stages with bigger names. I've done this dance before. But there's something about the way the air in here shifts when his name comes up—like the room itself leans in to listen.

The door clicks.