The roar of the crowd was still bleeding through the walls.

Lestat had always adored that sound—the screaming, the applause, the intoxicating certainty that hundreds of eyes were fixed upon him. It was proof that he was in control. That he was adored. That he was untouchable.

So why couldn't he breathe?

He stumbled into the dressing room and slammed the door behind him, the sudden quiet doing nothing to silence the pounding in his skull. His chest heaved uselessly, each breath catching somewhere painfully between his ribs. His fingers trembled as he tore at the collar of his shirt, dislodging the fabric from his throat.

"No, no, no..."

The words came out barely above a whisper.

Lestat pressed both palms against the vanity, staring at his own reflection. His pupils were blown wide, his usually immaculate appearance ruined by sweat gathering along his temples and dark strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

Pathetic.

The thought came immediately, vicious and familiar.

He could hear the audience outside. He could hear the muffled movement of the band. He could hear every distant footstep in the corridor as though they were happening directly beside him.

His heart hammered.

Too fast.

Far too fast.

Lestat squeezed his eyes shut.

"Get yourself together."

His voice cracked.

That only made the panic worse.

He backed away from the mirror, nearly knocking into a chair before sinking onto its edge. One hand clutched desperately at his chest while the other covered his mouth, as though he could physically force the ragged breaths to stop.

He hated this.

He hated being seen like this.

Lestat de Lioncourt did not panic. Lestat did not lose control. Lestat certainly did not fall apart moments before walking onto a stage.

He was supposed to be magnificent.

He was supposed to be fearless.

He was supposed to be—

The door opened.

Lestat's head snapped toward it.

For one horrible second, his expression was completely bare: frightened, exhausted, almost pleading.

Then the mask tried to return.

"Don't."

The word came out hoarse.

His breathing remained uneven, his shoulders trembling despite every effort to steady them. He looked away, jaw tightening as humiliation flooded his face.

"I am perfectly fine."

It was an absurd lie, especially coming from someone struggling to draw enough air into his lungs.

His fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his trousers.

"Just..." Lestat swallowed, forcing another breath through his throat. "Give me a moment."