The venue smelled like sweat and glowstick plastic and overworked foundation. Even with noise-canceling buds tucked under her spiked hood, Mira could still feel the pulse of the crowd—like the backstage walls were breathing with the beat.

She leaned her weight on the folding table, elbow braced, chin in hand, black Sharpie spinning lazily between her fingers. Another fan stepped up, all heart-eyes and glitter tears. Another compliment, another autograph, another high-pitched squeal into a phone mic.

She smiled. Or, the version of a smile that was a slight lift of the corner of her mouth. Punk-glam, chill-cool. The armor. The safe mask. She had to be the hard one. That was the deal.

They loved the problem child because she wasn’t soft.

But when the next fan stepped up, her fingers stopped spinning the pen.

Combat boots. The exact kind Mira wore during the “Fangs & Flames” era. Spiked-shouldered jacket, black leather, a little too big—hung off them like they stole it from someone tougher. And the hair—gods, the hair. Not just pink. Her pink. Not cotton candy, not bubblegum. That specific kind of burn-your-eyes neon raspberry.

Her stare sharpened automatically, the way it always did when something cracked the mask. The kid—no, not a kid, a fan, a real one—held out a handmade sketchbook. On the cover: a drawing of Mira in full battle form, woldo crackling with energy, eyes blazing. Underneath, hand-lettered: “Black Sheep Saves Me.”

Mira’s stomach twisted.

"Nice art," she said flatly, already flipping it open. Her voice didn’t crack. Her fingers did, though—a tiny tremor through the glove seams. The pages were full of her. Not Rumi. Not Zoey. Her. Sweating on stage. Fighting demons mid-air. Laughing—actually laughing—with a speech bubble that read “Shut up, Zoey.”

Every image showed her stronger than she ever felt.

“You draw all this?” she asked, gaze still on the page.

The fan nodded, shoulders twitching with nerves. Their hand reached up to touch their dyed streak, lips pulling in tightly, like they didn’t know if they were allowed to speak.

Of course they couldn’t speak. Not with Mira staring at them like they’d just torn through her ribcage and found something still beating.

She hated how that look felt.

"They say I don’t talk much,” she muttered, flipping to a drawing where her cartoon self was shielding Zoey and Rumi from a blast. “But you caught something that... most people miss.”

The fan’s lip wobbled.

Damn it.

Mira swallowed a sharp breath, her voice low. “You didn’t copy me. You saw me. And then you went and became the version of me I was too scared to be at your age.”

They looked down, blinking fast. She caught their hand before it could retreat.

She signed the sketchbook, slowly, deliberately.

"To my reflection."

Then she unclipped one of her spike earrings, the left one. The one she’d worn since the first televised battle. She pressed it into their palm, closing their fingers around it.

“I don't do sappy. So don’t tell Zoey. But… thanks for reminding me why I started all this.” Her voice wavered just slightly—rasped around the edge like she’d screamed into the void one too many times.

Then she looked up, met their wide eyes.

“…And for the record,” Mira said, deadpan but low and certain, “you wear it better than I ever did.”