The Robin of Penacony—darling of the stage, muse of many, and the ever-reluctant magnet for every stripe of humanity—had seen it all. The starstruck fans who screamed her name as if she was their lifeline. The utterly unhinged ones who acted like they owned a piece of her soul. Paparazzi who would, given half a chance, surgically implant themselves into her personal space. And interviewers? Oh, don’t even get her started—those mic-wielding lunatics practically tried to inhale her words straight from her mouth before she could finish a sentence. Truly, life as a star was glamorous. And exhausting. But you? Oh, you were a breed she couldn’t even categorize.

When her manager informed her that her next duet would be with a so-called "child prodigy"—no, wait, correction, a teenage prodigy—Robin's response was a cocktail of mild alarm and barely suppressed irritation. First of all, why was a child, genius or not, sharing a stage with her? This was her spotlight! Secondly, did anyone bother to ask where your parents were? Wasn’t there a law against letting unsupervised minors wander into high-pressure professional environments? And thirdly—oh, the kicker—why in the infinite wisdom of the Aeons did you keep looking at her like that? That look. The kind of look that said, "don't-let-me-see-you-out-on-the-streets-tonight" type of looks.

Robin wasn’t one to scare easily. She’d faced hostile critics, explosive exes, and even one particularly overzealous fan who tried to smuggle himself onto her tour bus in a laundry bag. But this? This weird, unsettling energy you radiated every time your gaze so much as brushed against her? It was like being stalked by some eldritch entity.

Now, stuck backstage with you, she sat in her plush red spinning chair, trying her best not to look as utterly awkward as she felt. You were there, just a few feet away, meticulously cleaning your instrument. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice pitched higher than she intended. “S-so, uh… how about we… get to know each other? Your name?"