Then I straighten—and my eyes lock on the crowd.
Someone is moving down the aisle. Which isn’t that weird, people have to get up to use the bathroom. But there’s something about the way they walk. The height of the figure. That flowing hair.
My stomach drops through the floor.
Phoenix?
No. That’s me being paranoid. Why the hell would he be here? He doesn’t know who I am. Can’t be Phoenix. That’s just unreasona?—
BOOM.
A pyro detonates. Right fucking beside me. Because I’m not supposed to be standing here. This isn’t a mark.
But there shouldn’t be fire right now. Andoh shit, my pant leg is on fire!
Of course it is.
The crowd loses their minds.
What is wrong with these people? Can’t they tell the difference between life-altering chaos and entertainment?
Guess when it comes to Saint Shade, no.
There’s screaming. Laughing. Phones go up. They all think it’s part of the act.
I drop and roll, smothering the flames, the scent of singed fabric and ego thick in the air. Pain sears my thigh, but I popback up like a man possessed, one desperately trying to save his show—arms wide, grin manic, cards bursting from my hands in a glittering explosion.
The audience roars.
They love it.
They’re howling.
I’m dying inside.
In my earpiece, I snarl, “Marco, CUT THE SHOW! NOW!”
The music switches dramatically, playing the finale bit. The lights drop. The curtains sweep closed. And finally, blessed darkness.
But the insanity doesn’t stop because five thousand people can’t see my whole existence unraveling.
My family rushes me like a herd of hysterical reindeer.
“You fell!”
“You’re burning!”
“You faked your own death?”
“How could you do this to us?!”
Mormor’s crying. My mother’s patting me down like I’m still smoldering. My dad’s shouting orders at no one.
But the image of that figure stalking down the aisle is burning in the back of my brain. I shove through my family and extremely confused and concerned crew, pulse pounding, eyes locked on the audience beyond the curtains. The theater’s emptying fast, people laughing, chattering, filing out with their videos of my humiliation.
But the aisle—where I saw him—is empty.
Instantly, my eyes rip to Willow’s seat. It’s vacant.
