They ran the final number four times before anyone spoke above a whisper. The rehearsal space was a hangar, big enough to house a fleet of private jets, though Kristina suspected it had done exactly that before Luminary Entertainment leased it out and tricked it into a cathedral for pop ambition.

  She stood at the center of the taped-off stage, dancers arrayed behind her in twin Vs, and watched herself in the wall-sized mirror: gold lamé crop top, glimmering tights, sneakers so white they made the rest of her look antique. The effect was deliberate—Mia Amor as myth, not person. She landed the opening combo, hips and arms locked in time, but on the third eight-count her brain vaporized and she found herself three beats behind, watching the others surge ahead.

  “From the top,” the choreographer snapped. Not angry, just tired. “This time, stay with the rhythm. Please.”

  Kristina nodded, apologetic, but when the music kicked in again her body refused to obey. She missed the same cue, stumbled a little, and then faked her way back into formation with a smile she’d learned from a thousand tour photos. The others knew instantly; the front line covered for her, but their eyes flickered over the mirror, reading her the way engineers read crash reports.

  On the third pass, she didn’t even try to hide it. She walked off the taped stage, hands on her hips, and mouthed “Sorry” to the ceiling.

  Leslie was waiting near the water coolers, tablet in one hand, a black pen in the other. She looked every bit the general of the operation: tailored pantsuit, glasses perched halfway down her nose, and a calm, coiled energy that seemed at odds with the frazzled exhaustion of everyone else.

  “Break,” Leslie called out, cutting through the post-song silence. “Ten minutes. Everyone hydrate and stretch.”

  The dancers peeled off, murmuring amongst themselves. Kristina grabbed a towel from the rolling cart and blotted the sweat from her neck, jaw set in frustration. She sensed Leslie watching, waiting for the right moment to approach.

  “You’re off today,” Leslie said quietly, voice pitched just for her. “Anything I should know about?”

  Kristina shook her head, wringing the towel between her fingers. “Didn’t sleep great. Sorry.”

  Leslie looked her up and down, weighing the lie. “You’ve had worse nights and still nailed it. Something on your mind?”

  She could have told the truth—about the anticipation, the weird nervousness, the way her entire sense of time had funneled toward a single point three days from now. Instead, she shook her head again.

  “I’ll get it together,” she said. “Promise.”

  Leslie’s tone shifted. “This is the biggest show of the tour, Kristina. Industry will be here. Half the label. Even the royals from the streaming thing.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I know you’ve been running on fumes, but I need you present. If something’s up, tell me now so we can manage it.”

  Kristina felt the words stick in her throat. “I’m fine,” she said, softer than before.

  Leslie let the silence stretch, then nodded. “Okay. But after this, you’re getting a week off. I’ll threaten Victor personally.”

  The thought made Kristina smile, if only a little. “Deal.”

  Leslie’s phone chimed, and she stepped away to answer, muttering as she walked. The second she was out of view, Kristina ducked into the corner near the costume racks and pulled her own phone from the waistband of her leggings.

  No new messages, but she scrolled back through the thread anyway, rereading the last five exchanges with Theo. It was mostly jokes—inside references to their mall encounter, an ongoing feud about the best order of pop tarts, a GIF war that had escalated past the point of mutual destruction. But at the bottom, a single line from the night before:

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Three days. Can’t wait.

  She read it twice, then let the phone rest against her chest.

  “Ready?” the choreographer called out, clapping her hands for attention. Kristina slipped the phone back, drew a deep breath, and walked onto the stage.

  The next hour was a blur of repetition. They looped through the final number, then broke down the transitions, then rebuilt the intro from scratch with new formations. Kristina moved on autopilot—muscle memory taking over, every count and step flowing together as if she’d never missed a beat at all. It was easier, this time, to lose herself in the rhythm. She even nailed the lift sequence, vaulting up on the shoulders of two dancers and nailing the final pose with a snap of her wrist.

  Still, as she hit the ground, the illusion slipped. She could feel her heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with the BPM. She was used to the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the high-wire act of keeping herself together. What she wasn’t used to was this constant pulse of something else—a tug, a need to be somewhere other than the spotlight.

  They wrapped just after seven. The dancers collapsed against the walls, groaning and stretching. Leslie did a walk-through with the choreographer, marking notes on her tablet. Kristina ducked into the back room and peeled off her sweat-soaked top, swapped it for a plain black tee, and ran her fingers through her curls until they snapped back into place. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, searching for the girl underneath the paint and sweat. She found her, but only barely.

  Her phone buzzed, once, then again. She checked it: first, a message from Leslie—“Upstairs in five, run through the final press briefing.” The second was from Theo.

  You still alive?

  She typed, “Barely. If I miss the next three days, avenge my death.”

  He replied immediately. “I will dedicate my first Vegas cocktail to your memory.”

  She grinned, then heard Leslie’s voice in the hallway.

  “Ms. Amor! You decent?”

  “Give me a sec,” she called, stuffing the phone back into her bag. She checked her reflection again, pinched her cheeks to force a little color, and then walked out.

  Leslie was waiting by the door, scrolling through her tablet. “You’ll get it,” she said, not looking up. “You always do.”

  Kristina shrugged. “Hope so.”

  Leslie paused, then looked at her, really looked. “Don’t burn out now. Last stop’s the finish line, not the funeral.”

  That almost made her laugh. “Copy that.”

  They walked together to the upstairs conference room. As they moved, Kristina let her mind drift again: to Theo, to the hotel, to the way her hands had shaken with excitement when she finally bought the plane ticket under her own name, no handlers, no manager. She pictured the night after the show, the way she’d shed this entire persona like a skin, walk into the bar and just exist. Not as Mia, not as Kristina the performer, but as herself. Maybe for the first time in years.

  The conference room was already filling with press people, two publicists, a digital content manager, and a guy from the record label who smelled like imported cologne and looked like he’d never sweated a day in his life. They ran through the talking points, the questions about new music, the reminders about “staying on message.” Kristina answered every prompt with a smile, her voice set to the perfect pitch of enthusiasm and mystery. If anyone noticed that she was more distant than usual, they didn’t say so.

  Afterwards, Leslie lingered. “You want to grab dinner? Or are you heading back?”

  Kristina shook her head. “I’ll crash early. Need to reset before tomorrow.”

  Leslie nodded, then leaned in and squeezed her shoulder. “Proud of you,” she said, then left her to gather her things.

  In the empty room, Kristina sat and stared at her phone, the screen reflecting the overhead lights back at her. For a long time she didn’t move. Then, with a kind of practiced efficiency, she typed out a message to Theo:

  Three more days. Don’t forget.

  She hesitated, then added:

  I’m nervous.

  It felt raw, and maybe that was the point.

  The reply came a minute later.

  THEO: Same. But that’s good, right?

  She smiled, the first real smile of the day, and let the feeling fill her for a few seconds before she stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked out.

  Back at the hotel, she stripped off the day’s armor, showered, and changed into a pair of battered sweats and an old band tee she’d had since high school. She pulled up the set list for the show, stared at it for a long time, then deleted it from her phone. She didn’t need it anymore. She had the whole routine wired into her bones.

  What she needed was to keep her head clear long enough to get through the next three days. And then, maybe, figure out what to do with the pieces she still had left.

  As she crawled into bed, the city below her window flickered with a thousand lights—every one of them a stage, or a hope, or a challenge waiting to be met.

  She closed her eyes, let the exhaustion carry her under, and dreamed about the moment when the music would stop, and she could finally walk offstage.