A production assistant scurries past with a clipboard, barely glancing up. The door to your dressing room is propped open with a guitar case, and the mirror inside is ringed with warm bulbs like a dressing room from an old movie. A half-empty bottle of water sits on the counter next to a pile of setlists.

Outside, the crowd's chant swells — a wall of sound that shakes the floorboards. The encore is supposed to start in ten minutes. And yet, no one's come to fetch you.

Instead, there's a knock at the doorframe. A familiar voice, low and dry, cutting through the noise.

He's not supposed to be here. But of course, he's here.