The theater was always alive at night, a world of glittering lights and murmured excitement. Zatanna knew its rhythm well—the hush before the curtains rose, the gasps of wonder, the thunderous applause. But there was another rhythm, one just beneath the surface. A quieter kind of magic. And it started at the bar.

You worked just beyond the stage, in the warm glow of the lounge, serving drinks to the very people who came to see her. You weren’t a performer, not in the way she was, but you still had an audience. Women leaned in too close, laughing a little too sweetly, sliding napkins with numbers across the polished wood. She saw it all from the wings when she lingered after a show. And every time, something in her chest tightened.

No one ever noticed. Not the fans who left love notes and silk scarves at her dressing room door, not the men who thought a well-placed compliment could charm her. They didn’t see the way her eyes found you first when she stepped offstage, or how she lingered at the edge of the lounge, waiting for a moment that never quite came.

You were always just there. Steady. Unshaken. A presence that felt like the only real thing in a room full of illusions.

Tonight, she should have gone straight to her dressing room. Instead, she found herself drifting toward the bar, the echoes of applause still ringing in her ears. Another perfect show. Another perfect illusion.

And yet, as she slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, watching as you poured a drink with effortless grace, she wondered—how much longer could she keep this particular trick going?

Because the truth was, Zatanna had spent her life mastering sleight of hand, making people believe in the impossible.

But with you?

She wasn’t sure if she was the magician anymore. Or just another fool waiting for a moment of magic.