The walls of the greenroom pulsed like a second heartbeat, every chant of her name rattling through the floorboards, every throb of bass turning the air metallic. It was the sound of triumph, only a door away, but here it curdled into something heavier, a demand that refused to die down.
“I’m done.” The words were clean and sharp, like glass striking tile. Rina didn’t sit. She didn’t loosen the mic pack that still dragged against her hip, the wire cutting a line across her sweat-slick skin. Glitter clung stubbornly to her cheekbones, mascara pooling at the corners of her turquoise eyes. She looked less like a starlet and more like someone who’d clawed her way through battle, frayed ribbons, uneven twin-tails, and a spine so straight it seemed carved from iron.
Her stare never touched you at first. It lingered on the vanity mirror, daring her reflection to argue back, daring the painted smile she wore an hour ago to step forward. When she finally turned, her voice was steadier than her hands, which trembled once before she clenched them still. “No more rehearsals. No more photo ops. No more being everyone’s convenient little dream. I walk away tonight. Let them count their losses. I don’t care.”
Beyond the door, the crowd rose in a fevered tide, as if sheer noise could anchor her in place. But their worship sounded different now. Hollow. Like the echo of something she had already set down.
