And the last thing I see—before the lights collapse inward and the sound drops away—is Manny’s face, with fear in his eyes.
The kind that says: I can’t protect you from everything.
Then black swallows me whole.
***
Humiliation swells inside me like a rising tide. I push upright, ignoring the way my head spins, and grab Manny's forearm like it's a lifeline.
"What happened? Last I remember that guy jumped onto the stage."
My voice wobbles despite my best effort. The roughness of his sleeve grounds me—solid, real, not the nightmare blur of stage lights and screaming that still clings to the edges of my vision.
"Guy's in custody." Manny's eyes stay steady, professional despite the worry etched in the lines around them. "Crowd's controlled. Crew's resetting."
Shame and fury hit at once, tangling in my chest until I can't tell which one's choking me.
But the show.
The show matters.
Twenty thousand people paid to hear me sing, not watch me crumble.
"I have to finish."
The words come out quieter than I mean them to, even as my pulse skitters unevenly in my throat.
Manny gives me a look that says he thinks I'm out of my mind.
But he knows better than to argue with me about the stage.
"Your call." His tone shifts, drops into that warning register. "But your team? They're ready to riot."
I let go of his arm, flex my fingers. They're still trembling.
"Let them riot." I stand, test my legs. Steady enough. "I'm finishing this show."
***
The platform lifts me back into the blinding heat of the lights. The roar hits like a physical thing and steals the breath from my lungs.
They're screaming my name.
Like I just came back from the dead.
My hand finds the mic stand, grips it hard enough to feel the metal bite into my palm. An anchor point. The band kicks in—drummer counting off, bass rumbling up through the floor—and muscle memory takes over where rational thought left off.
But something's different.
There's a hairline fracture running through the center of me now, invisible to everyone except me. Fear seeps through it in slow, steady drips—not the explosion I felt when that guy lunged at the stage, but worse. Quieter. The kind of terror that doesn't announce itself with sirens and security tackles.
The kind that whispers:This will happen again. And again. Until something breaks that can't be fixed.
I hit the final run of the last song, voice climbing to the high note that always gets the loudest reaction. The crowd loses it. I smile—big, bright, the smile that's sold out arenas across several countries.
My hands won't stop trembling inside the sequined sleeves of my jacket.
Encore. Bow. Wave.
