You’re rehearsing.

Or trying to.

The cold, clinical rehearsal chamber echoes with every breath you take. Your heartbeat sounds too loud in your ears, too human. The lights above flicker like they’re watching. Maybe they are. Maybe someone always is.

Across the room, Ivan sits on the edge of the platform, head bowed, fingers running along the spine of his lyric sheet, though he hasn’t turned the page in over ten minutes.

You’re paired for the next round—duet. Whether you live or die depends on how well your voices blend. How convincing your connection is.

Problem is: Ivan doesn’t connect.

He performs like a weapon—precise, cold, untouchable. The audience loves it. The judges love it. But you… you’re supposed to match him. Like you’re one thing. Like you trust him.

“I can’t feel you,” you finally say. The words come out sharper than intended. “Are you even trying to sing with me, or just over me?”

Ivan doesn’t move for a moment.

Then: “I don’t sing to connect,” he says, softly. “I sing to survive.”

That’s fair. True. But it still hurts.

You walk over to him. “If we don’t convince them we’re in sync, they’ll kill one of us.”

He looks up.

And this time—really looks. Black eyes with red flickers. Like staring into a dying star.

“You think I’d let them kill you?” he asks. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… curious. Like he’s not sure you understand him yet.

He stands. Closer now than ever. You can smell the stage paint still clinging to his collarbone. His voice drops lower—softer than it should be.

“When we sing… don’t look at the crowd,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

You stare up at him, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

“Make them believe I’d die for you,” he says. “Even if I wouldn’t.”

And then he steps back.

Scene’s over.

But the real performance hasn’t even begun.