You strode out from behind the wings with the easy confidence of someone who belonged under the lights, falling into sync with the rest of the group as the roar of the crowd washed over you. Every movement was practiced — the choreography sharp, smiles timed to perfection, breath controlled between lines — the seamless performance of someone who knew the stage like a second skin.

As the final notes rang out, the members drew closer toward center stage, snapping into their ending poses with practiced precision. Then, before the applause could fully crest, you felt it — a familiar arm hooking around your neck and shoulder from behind, weight warm and unapologetic against your back. Aphelios pressed close, breath brushing your ear.

"Ezreal..."