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The city does not love Ail, but it feeds them.
It has been three months and four days since their first audition. Three months of long nights, grueling performances, and a gnawing hunger for something bigger. Ail has learned the industry is nothing like they imagined.
There is no magic, only sweat.
There is no glory, only expectation.
Their body aches from constant movement, their face sore from holding the right expressions at the right moments. Every performance is a test, and every test is a battle. But they do not break.
Theatre after theatre, role after role—background parts, small moments on stage where they are barely seen. But they never fail to be noticed. Each time, there is a whisper:
"That one moves differently."
"Who is that?"
Ail works, waits, endures.
Then, their birthday arrives. December 10th.
They turn fifteen—old enough to earn more, to step into larger roles.
They celebrate alone.
There is no cake, no candles, no one to sing for them. Only the city, humming outside their window, and the sharp taste of the cold night air.
That same night, Reymond Delle, the director of the theatre where they currently work, enters the dormitory where the stage performers sleep. Ail barely looks up at first—Delle does not often visit this late. But when he hands them a letter, his expression unreadable, Ail stiffens.
"A sponsor wanted this sent to you," he says. "I'll leave you to it."
Then, he is gone.
Ail rips the envelope open.
The name inside is one they have never seen before.
Quenlinne Rochelle.
The letter is elegant, written in perfect script. Ail reads quickly, eyes darting over the words with furious curiosity.
Réalta Scannán Radiant Industries.
An invitation. A promise.
"I am looking for ambitious young stars—hungry, relentless. You caught my eye."
Ail does not hesitate.
They send a response before the ink is dry.
Two weeks later.
Another performance. Another stage. Macbeth. Again.
Ail bows, smiling politely at the audience, whispering half-hearted thank-yous to the rich play enthusiasts who sip wine and pretend they understand tragedy.
"Why is every theatre so obsessed with this boringly morbid story?" they think. "Can't they be more ambitious?"
They are still lost in thought when they see her.
Quenlinne Rochelle.
She moves toward them slowly, each step deliberate.
Dark skin, bright black monolid eyes unreadable, red lips curled in a knowing smile. A sharp nose, a sharper blonde bob. She waves a delicate fan, as if dismissing the entire room.
"You're Ail… younger than I thought."
Her voice is silk-wrapped steel.
"Spectacular."
The word lingers, drawn out like she is tasting it.
She studies them, the fan in her hand shifting slightly. A flick, a whisper of movement, as if she is calculating something unseen.
"I have already spoken to your director," she says. "You are to leave with me tonight. Pack whatever belongings you may possess. We must arrive at London Square before 11:32 PM. From there, it is only a five-minute walk to the industry. No need to fret."
Ail does not question her.
They run to collect their things, eager, breathless.
Quenlinne watches, laughing softly.
"Now, now. Slow down. You don't want to waste all that energy before we even get to the cab."
Ail flushes, falling into step behind her. Before they leave, they take one last look at the theatre they have called home for the past four weeks.
They feel nothing.
"Good riddance."
The cab ride is a blur of sharp turns and sudden stops, of barking dogs and cursing drivers. The city feels different at night—hungrier, watching.
Then, they arrive.
Réalta Scannán Radiant Industries.
The building is tall, aged, peeling at the edges. Above the entrance, an angel hangs from the ground floor's roof trim.
Its nose is chipped off.
Its eyes are blackened.
Ail stares. They do not know why this unsettles them, only that it does.
"In you go, dear," Quenlinne murmurs, tapping their shoulder with her fan.
Ail steps inside.
And they freeze.
The interior is immaculate—gleaming marble floors, chandeliers that drip with golden light. A stark contrast to the building's decaying exterior.
Quenlinne removes her coat, tossing it aside carelessly. She moves to the center of the hall, turning back toward Ail with something strange in her gaze.
Admiration?
No.
Hunger.
Ail keeps their distance, stepping carefully to avoid staining the perfect floors with their muddy boots.
"I will have someone take you to your room," Quenlinne says smoothly. "Rest. Tomorrow, you will greet the rest of the residents here. You must establish a name for yourself."
She picks up a biscuit from a snack bar, biting into it slowly, deliberately.
"I will only be helping you for five months… perhaps a little longer, if I find you truly worth it. But from then on—"
Her smile sharpens.
"You're on your own."
Ail watches her chew, waiting for her to finish before speaking.
"I prefer being alone."
Quenlinne's expression does not change, but there is amusement in the way she tilts her head.
"Evidently," she says. "But in this industry, support is a necessity. People tend to eat trainee stars alive."
Ail remembers the Mentor's warning.
"They will chew you up and spit you out."
But they push the memory away.
There is no time for people who are not here to watch them rise.
Quenlinne turns toward a door. Ail assumes it leads to her own quarters.
She pauses at the threshold, looking back.
She winks.
Then, the door swings shut with a soft thud.
Ail stands in the silence, then exhales, shoulders rolling back.
They search for their room.