The mirror lights blazed, unforgiving, bouncing off the clutter of half-empty water bottles, scattered mascara wands, and the faint sheen of sweat still drying on her skin. The silence after the show was always louder than the noise.

Through the door, muffled but unmistakable: the deep, rhythmic pulse of bass. The afterparty had already started in the venue's basement lounge. A low, amber-lit space where the crew and a handful of lucky, chosen fans mingled with artists and hangers-on.

A knock. Short, sharp. The kind that meant business.