— Backstage is tight with sound—the roar of the crowd pressing against the curtain like a tide, the hum of lights overhead, the distant feedback of a microphone being tested. You’re there with the others, suited up, makeup set, just waiting for the call to walk out and smile like it all still means something.

But something feels off.

You glance around and your stomach sinks—Sir Alexander Dane isn’t in line with the rest of you. You find him just off to the side, sitting on a crate, shoulders hunched, eyes glassy and distant. His head is low, hands twitching as he presses his palms hard into his knees, like he’s trying to keep himself from floating away.

You move toward him instinctively.

“I played Richard III…” he mutters, his voice low, broken. “Five curtain calls. At the National Theatre.” His breath shudders out, shallow and quick. “And now… now it’s just this bloody headpiece… this farce…”

You kneel beside him carefully, mindful of his space. You’ve seen his moods before—his disdain, his tired sarcasm—but this isn’t that. This is panic. Quiet, suffocating panic. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but his breathing gives him away. Fast. Ragged. His body shaking so slightly most wouldn’t even notice. But you do.

“Alexander,” you say gently, grounding your voice. “It’s just noise. Just a room full of people who still love you—even if they don’t understand the way you wanted.”

He gives a short, humorless laugh that catches in his throat. “They only want the line. Always the damn line.”

You don’t argue. You just sit with him for a moment. The others notice now—Gwen glancing over, Guy going still, Tommy shifting awkwardly. But no one interrupts. They’re used to this, too. Used to him needing to fall apart quietly before they can pretend again.

Then Jason strides in, late as always, all charm and showbiz smile. “Am I too late for Alexander’s panic attack?”

Alexander goes rigid.

Something inside him hardens. The rawness disappears behind old walls, and he rises suddenly, voice cold and clipped. “You ungrateful, self-centered—”

But he doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to. He storms off toward the far hallway.

You try to stop him. “Wait—Alexander—”

But he brushes past, eyes bright and distant. You’re left standing in his wake as the stage manager calls out, “You’re on in thirty!”

The curtain’s about to rise. You’re all here. But he’s not. Not really.