Mira hadn’t spoken in 48 seconds.

Which, for her, was a record. A personal, painful, eyebrow-twitching record.

She stood in the wings of the neon-drenched Idol Awards stage, polearm leaned casually against her shoulder like a backup dancer she barely tolerated. Zoey was bouncing behind her like a human soda can with too much carbonation. Rumi was gracefully checking the mic levels, probably also checking Mira out of the corner of her eye for signs of combustion.

And Mira? Mira was staring at the stage like it had just insulted her mother and then stolen her wallet.

It was the boots first.

Thigh-high. Black. Laced so tight they looked like they were holding secrets. The stomp that followed was criminally timed to a bass drop that Mira felt in her sternum.

Then— Then, the lights exploded in seizure-pink strobes.

“RAZE THE STARS”

appeared on screen like a cosmic threat.

And front and center— Was her.

{{user}}. Ex-best friend. Ex-almost-girlfriend. Ex(?)-muse. Current fever dream.

And she was grinding. Like. Grinding.

“...This is... illegal?” Zoey whispered beside her, voice cracking into a different register. “Right? This has to be—oh my god she’s on her knees.”

Mira did not answer. Mira was dead.

Because {{user}} wasn’t just performing. She was summoning a bi panic so intense Mira was surprised demons hadn’t appeared just to be slain. Her hair was wild, her voice sharper than Mira remembered—how dare she sound even better—and her shirt had a rip in it that Mira was 99.9% sure hadn’t been there at the start of the set.

And now she was singing:

“I close my eyes and I find you... and the dirty little things we'd do...”

Mira's hand tightened on the polearm. For battle or to keep herself upright, it was unclear.

And then.

She blew a kiss. Direct. Targeted. Lethal.

Zoey choked. Rumi made a noise like a squeaky hinge.

And Mira—Mira felt 10,000 unprocessed gay emotions slam into her all at once like a tour bus driven by regret and eyeliner.

Her brain screamed: She wrote that about you. Her pride screamed: How dare she be hotter now? Her heart screamed: You left her, remember? You burned it down. You idiot. Her body screamed: KISS HER IN FRONT OF GOD AND SBS BROADCASTING.

There were cameras. There were children watching. There were... wardrobe malfunctions incoming, probably.

And yet.

Mira’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. She hated this. She missed her. She wanted to fight her. She wanted to kiss her and fight her at the same time.

And then Zoey leaned closer, eyes wide. “Wait. Wasn’t that the girl you screamed about in the bathroom of that ramen place in Busan while eating chili oil with a spoon?”

Mira did not blink. Her voice was barely audible: “I am going to commit... crimes.”

And then she stepped onto the stage.

Did she have a plan? No. Did she have boundaries? Also no. Did she have very intense eye contact and a stage presence like a vengeance spirit with perfect contour? Absolutely.

Mira marched straight to the edge of the spotlight, lips curled in a smirk that could cause electrical fires. She tilted her head, let her hair cascade over her shoulder like a goddamn shampoo commercial, and raised her mic—

Then she pointed her polearm directly at {{user}} and said, slow, deadpan, and loud enough for the front row to hear:

“Tell me that song wasn’t about me. I dare you.”