"That's literally what my character does."
"Then you nailed it."
The cast was gathering backstage, nervous energy crackling through the air. Ben appeared beside me, already in costume, looking unfairly good in period menswear.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Terrified."
"Good. Use it." He studied my face. "You're different. Since you came back from being sick."
I'd told everyone I'd had the flu. Nobody believed it, but campus politics meant nobody questioned it either.
"I stopped apologizing for taking up space," I said.
"About fucking time." He squeezed my shoulder. "Break a leg tonight. And tomorrow."
"You too."
The stage manager's voice cut through the chatter: "Places for top of show! This is dress rehearsal, people. Treat it like opening night. No stopping unless someone's dying."
I found my starting position in the wings, heart already racing. Through the gap in the curtain, the house lay empty. Seats waiting to be filled. Tomorrow those seats would hold my future.
And in the back row, barely visible in the dim house lights, three figures settled into their seats. Pack. Here to watch. To support.
Not to control.
That was new too.
De Scarzis's voice boomed from the tech booth: "Whenever you're ready, stage manager."
"House to half. Standby curtain." A pause. "And... go."
The lights came up. The curtain rose.
I stepped onto the stage and became someone else.
Act One was a fucking masterclass.
Not only from me—though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't killing it—but from everyone. The entire cast had raised their game, feeding off the energy, building something bigger than the sum of our parts. De Scarzis had barely taken notes, watching with that intense focus that meant he was seeing something unexpected.
Ben and I moved through our scenes like we'd been performing together for years instead of months. Every line landed. Every beat hit. The chemistry between our characters crackled with the right mix of attraction and danger.
During a quick scene change, I caught a glimpse of the pack in the back row. Dorian sat forward, completely absorbed. Oakley had a notebook balanced on his knee—of course he'd come prepared to take notes. Corvus had his phone out, probably recording for my reel.
They were here for me. Not to manage me. Not to control the narrative. Here.
Something in my chest loosened.
The act built to its climax—my character's first major confrontation, where she stopped being victim and became player. I channeled every argument with Dorian, every instant I'd felt powerless, every time I'd had to fight for the right to exist as myself.
The last line of Act One landed like a slap. The lights cut to black.
In the silence before the house lights came up for intermission, nobody moved. That perfect, terrible stretch where you don't know if you've transcended or crashed and burned. Then scattered applause erupted from the tech booth, from the crew in the wings, and I heard someone whisper, "Holy shit."
The house lights came up. I stumbled offstage on shaking legs, adrenaline making everything too bright, too loud, too much.
"Holy shit," Ben said, materializing beside me. "Where did that come from?"
