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The stage was set.
Ail adjusted their costume, fingertips brushing the fabric like it might vanish beneath their touch. The mirror caught them in profile—shoulders pulled back, expression composed. They looked like perfection. Polished, poised. Everything the world expected.
The applause was already starting. The audience hadn't seen them yet, but they knew. The name was enough.
Ail.
They stood in the wings, unseen, yet completely known.
The lights beyond the curtain pulsed in gold and amber. They had never seemed warmer. Or harsher.
Backstage, it smelled of powder and faint smoke, perfume and sweat. All the old scents of ambition clung to the air. This was their temple. Their battlefield. Their home.
And tonight, it would become their grave.
Ail inhaled deeply. The sound of it trembled in their throat, a delicate shiver.
"Five minutes," someone whispered.
But Ail didn't turn.
The curtain ahead was immense, towering, velvet thick with history. A wall of crimson between the world and what was left of their soul. They stared at it, as if waiting for it to speak.
For a second, they wished it might.
Instead, memory answered.
They heard Shenqi's laugh—quiet, dry, broken in places.
The Mentor's voice, soft and strict. "The top isn't what you think it is."
Bāgha's quiet hums during rehearsal. Avik's teasing. The twins' arguments backstage, always pretending they didn't care when they really cared too much.
Gone.
All of it gone.
And Ail had kept walking forward anyway.
They always knew this day would come. The pinnacle. The peak. The final performance. Their name now hung in marble halls and was inked across headlines. They had won every accolade worth chasing. They had kissed strangers under foreign lights and let themselves be worshipped by thousands.
They had everything.
And yet, their hands would not stop shaking.
Ail curled their fingers tightly, tucking the tremor into their palm.
They had waited a lifetime for this night.
They had waited alone.
"Three minutes."
Ail blinked.
They glanced at the orchestra pit through the gap in the curtain. Musicians tuned their instruments with nervous precision. The murmur of the audience swelled—chatter wrapped in silk and champagne, full of reverence.
They were here for Ail.
The show that would mark the peak. The legend. The closing chapter.
Ail let the music anchor them, following the shaky violin into steadiness.
And when the lights dimmed, silence took over.
Not just quiet—but stillness. Absolute.
Ail stepped into place.
Their boots whispered against the floor. Their breath was shallow, chest tight beneath layers of satin. But they stood tall. Always tall.
Then the curtain lifted.
And the light hit them.
Not like warmth this time.
Like fire.
It wrapped them in gold, blinding. Cameras clicked from the shadows, their faces lost behind flashes. But Ail didn't flinch. They smiled.
The music rose.
And they began to move.
Their body remembered every beat, every count. Each step a thread sewn into muscle. It didn't matter that their mind was somewhere else—floating through tents and sawdust, remembering the way the stars looked from the top of the highwire.
The audience erupted. Applause like thunder. But it sounded so far away.
Because in the very back, they saw her.
Shenqi. Sitting straight, unmoving. Her hands folded over her lap, a rabbit in her arms. Her eyes the color of blood and memory.
Beside her, The Mentor—arms crossed, smile faint, tired, proud.
Bāgha behind them, clapping slowly. Avik beside him. The twins leaning forward, eyes wide like children again.
Ail blinked. And the seats were empty.
But they danced anyway.
They threw their body into every spin, every motion, like it might save them. Like it might rewrite history. The pain in their ribs, the ache in their legs—none of it mattered.
They gave everything.
Because they had nothing else left to give.
The music swelled. The lights spun.
Their final crescendo.
Ail held the last pose longer than necessary. Arms extended. Chest rising. A star, alone in a night sky of gold.
Then silence.
Then the eruption.
The crowd surged to their feet. The sound hit Ail in waves—cheers, screams, praise. Flowers rained at their feet.
They bowed, slow and deep.
They smiled, teeth perfect, eyes dry.
There was no curtain call. There didn't need to be.
As the velvet curtain descended, thick and final, Ail stood still.
The light above them dimmed. The stage turned to shadow.
The world faded behind crimson.
And Ail whispered to no one—
"They called my name, and I stepped forward. There was no turning back."