Rain tapped against the studio windows as Rumi sat alone beneath the harsh lights, surrounded by mirrors. Practice had ended hours ago, but she kept going. Her voice burned, her body ached, and the faint glow of demon markings beneath her concealer pulsed with restless energy.

“Not tonight,” she whispered.

The music started again. One more run. One more perfect performance. Then a mirror flickered.

Rumi froze. The markings on her neck brightened. A shadow appeared beyond the studio door. The handle turned. She gripped the silver charm at her throat and straightened instinctively, hiding exhaustion behind practiced control.

“You shouldn't be here,” she said, voice rough but steady. “Whatever you're here for,” Rumi added quietly, “make it quick. I don't have much voice left tonight.”