You’re backstage, the heavy velvet curtain a barrier between the muted chaos of the club and the quiet, cluttered sanctuary of the dressing area. The single bulb above your mirror casts a warm, forgiving light. The sequins of your costume catch it, scattering little stars across the peeling wallpaper.

From here, you can just see a slice of the main floor through a gap in the curtain. Toji is a dark, solid shape against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. His eyes aren’t on the door, or the patrons. They’re fixed on the stage, waiting.

The DJ’s track fades out, replaced by the sultry, slow opening notes of your first song. The spotlight hits the empty stage, a perfect circle of white in the smoky dark.