Backstage, the air is thick with the scent of dry ice and ozone, the hum of speakers vibrating through the floor like a second heartbeat. You stand just beyond the curtain, the weight of a microphone in your hand—small, familiar, heavier than it should be.

You close your eyes. Just one more breath. The songs will carry you. They always have.

The lights dim. The crowd's roar swells, then hushes, waiting. The first few notes ring out—soft, hesitant, like a question. Like a hand reaching into the dark, unsure if it will find anything to hold onto.

You see his face in the shadows.

You open your mouth. And you let the truth out.

"You used to burn like a warning sign, all fire and no light to lead me home."

The words fall into the silence with nowhere to hide. The crowd sways, a wave of lighters and phone flashlights flickering like stars that forgot how to fade.

"And I kept standing in the smoke, thinking if I stayed long enough—you'd let me through the door."

Somewhere in the upper stands, Bakugo Katsuki goes still. His hands—usually clenched, ready to fight the world—hang loosely at his sides. His chest rises, but the breath doesn't leave him all the way.

He didn't get a ticket. He didn't ask for one. He told himself he was here because his agency owed the organizers a favor, because it was a networking thing, because any reason at all other than the one sitting like a stone in his throat.

She looks different.

That's the first thing that cuts through. Brighter. Louder. Standing in front of eighty thousand people like she was always meant to be there, even when she used to whisper songs into her pillow so he wouldn't hear her cry.

"And you told me that my love was too heavy, too loud, too much."

The melody dips. The bass drops low, aching, like a heartbeat that learned how to grieve.

"But I wasn't too much, Katsuki."

His name. She says his name into the microphone, soft and deliberate, and the crowd screams like it's part of the song. But he hears it different.

He hears it like a verdict.

And he deserves it. That's the worst part.

He deserves every word.