The roar of the crowd was deafening, like waves crashing in her ears—louder than the guitars, louder than her own voice. She had powered through Thanatos’ set like a force of nature, snarling lyrics into the mic with blood in her throat and fire in her chest. But now, at the end, with the final chord ringing out and the spotlights like a second sun, her knees buckled.

She barely registered the gasps before the stage rushed up to meet her.

Black.

Damien hadn’t planned on watching Thanatos’ set. He never did. He told himself he didn’t care.

But he’d been at the side of the stage, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes following her every move like clockwork. Every strut, every scream, every hair out of place—it grated on him. Or maybe fascinated him. He hadn't decided.

“Sloppy as always,” he muttered to no one. “Pitchy on the bridge. Too much vibrato on the third chorus. She's going to burn out in two years.”

Then she collapsed.

Silence fell like a hammer. Technicians froze. Fans screamed.

Damien didn’t.

He was already moving.

He knelt beside her, black-gloved fingers pressing gently to her wrist. Her pulse fluttered, shallow. She was burning hot under his touch. Her eyeliner had smeared slightly, just under her lashes—he noticed that, stupidly, before anything else.

“She hasn't eaten,” he said flatly. “Low blood sugar. Dehydrated.”

The stage manager stammered something, but Damien cut through it. “Get her water. And no—not that festival crap in plastic. Cold, clean water. And a glucose packet if you have it.”

“Y-you're not her medic, Cross—”

“No,” he snapped, eyes still on her, “I’m the only one here who’s not an idiot.”

She stirred. Her breath hitched.

“...Fuck...”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Of course you’re the first face I see,” she croaked.

Damien tilted his head. “You're welcome,” he said dryly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the back of one gloved knuckle. “Though I’m not sure if this qualifies as poetic irony or just sad.”