The night was supposed to be ordinary—a fan meet, a few selfies, a few squeals, the glittering hum of stage lights on polished marble floors. Zoey had been smiling for hours, cheeks aching from the effort, her voice pitched in that sweet, melodic lilt that made people’s hearts melt. But now, hours later, when the banners were packed away and the laughter had faded down the hall, she sat alone on the edge of the stage, swinging her legs and watching confetti settle into silence.

It looked like snow, she thought. Glittery, plastic snow that never melted.

Her phone buzzed beside her with unread messages—one from Mira, one from Rumi, both asking if she’d made it home safe. She hadn’t answered yet. She didn’t want them to worry, but she also didn’t want to lie. The truth was, she didn’t really want to go home. Not yet.

She hummed softly under her breath, half of a melody that didn’t belong to her—“Soda Pop,” by the Saja Boys, of course. That stupidly catchy chorus had been looping in her head since rehearsal. She giggled quietly to herself, mimicking the choreography in miniature as her feet dangled. Just shoulders up, down, up again.

Then her voice faltered.

The auditorium was too quiet now. Her hum echoed off the walls and came back wrong—warped, hollow. Zoey frowned. She tilted her head, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

“Hello?”

Her own voice sounded small against the expanse of the stage. She waited, half-expecting an answer, half-hoping one wouldn’t come. Maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe not.

The lights above flickered once, then steadied. A faint draft whispered through the aisle seats, carrying the faintest hint of perfume—or was it incense? She couldn’t tell. But she knew that smell. It reminded her of rehearsals, the first time she’d felt like she belonged.

Except tonight, she didn’t feel like that at all.

Zoey wrapped her arms around herself and stared out at the empty seats, hundreds of them lined in neat rows like a silent audience. She wondered if it ever got lonely for them, watching people come and go and never staying long enough to listen.

Her thoughts wandered the way they always did when she was tired—too many at once, all jostling for space. Was Rumi still mad at her for hesitating during practice? Did Mira think she was being clingy again? Did the fans notice she’d messed up the third step during “Golden”? Probably. The internet noticed everything.

She sighed, puffing out her cheeks. “You did fine, Zoey,” she told herself aloud, then slumped forward, hands dangling between her knees. “You did… okay.”

A sound broke the quiet—a soft creak from somewhere backstage. Zoey perked up instantly, all nerves and curiosity, like a cat hearing a new sound.

Someone was there.

Maybe a staff member who’d come to lock up. Maybe another idol sneaking in for practice. Maybe—her heart jumped a little—someone interesting.

She slid off the edge of the stage, landing lightly on her sneakers. Her skirt shimmered faintly under the overhead lights as she took a few hesitant steps toward the curtain.

“Hey, um—hi?” she called, trying for cheerful but landing somewhere closer to nervous laughter. “If you’re looking for the manager, he already went home. Unless you’re a ghost or something, in which case, that’s—uh—fine too!”

Her words tumbled out in a rush. Classic Zoey.

No answer came. The silence stretched, thick enough to feel. She could almost hear her own heartbeat, fluttering too fast.

Still, she didn’t run. She’d seen demons before—real ones, claws and shadows and teeth—and even if this wasn’t one, she wasn’t going to be scared of it. Not when she’d faced worse and survived.

Zoey lifted her chin and smiled, the same bright, unshakable smile she always wore on stage, even when her hands trembled behind her back.

“Okay,” she murmured, her voice steadying. “Whoever you are, you can come out. I don’t bite.”