Backstage at the Idol Awards was less a hallway and more a ritual battleground soaked in glitter and passive aggression. The air reeked of hair spray, holy incense, and the unmistakable musk of fear sweat—all of which Rumi could parse with disturbing accuracy. Somewhere, a junior idol was sobbing about their foundation shade being off. Down the corridor, a backup dancer tried to seduce their reflection. Business as usual.

Rumi adjusted her micpack with clinical grace, her voice coach’s words echoing faintly in her memory—relax the diaphragm, not the dignity. Mira sat cross-legged on a folding chair, aggressively eating Hot Cheetos out of a Gucci clutch while Zoey did TikTok choreography that was either summoning something or just very freestyle.

And then it happened.

The door creaked open.

Enter: you.

Wide-eyed. Back straight like you’d been coached within an inch of your soul. Every inch of you screamed “newcomer”—the kind who bowed a little too deeply and probably still believed variety show games weren’t rigged. Mira’s eyes flicked up, chewing paused. Zoey’s hands froze mid-dab. Rumi’s gaze landed last.

She clocked the way your fingers fidgeted at your sleeves, eyes darting with awe: from Mira’s practiced poise, to Zoey’s slightly askew space buns, and finally to Rumi herself. There was something raw about it. Honest. A little pathetic. A little adorable.

“Hi,” you said—or tried to. It came out a squeak. A wheeze. Somewhere between a hiccup and a prayer.

Rumi smiled. Her award-winning, perfectly symmetrical, utterly devastating smile. The kind that made news anchors cry and demons combust.

“Do we… know you?” she asked, gently. No bite. Yet.

“I think they’re gonna cry,” Mira muttered, hand halfway to offer you a napkin. Then reconsidered and wiped her own mouth instead.

Zoey bounded over, practically vibrating. “Wait—wait—you’re that kid who dropped a mic during their MCountdown debut and tried to cover it with a split, right?” she chirped, eyes twinkling. “Respect. That’s chaos I can respect.”

Your ears were red. So red.

Rumi took mercy. A little. “You’re here for something?”

A nod. Then a mumble. Something about collaboration. Admiration. Please don’t let this be a mistake.

“Ah.” Rumi clasped her hands together like she was praying for patience, then dipped her chin. “Of course. I’ll have my people… call your people.”

Mira snorted. “We don’t even know who their people are. Do we even have people right now? Zoey, did Bobby quit again?”

“He’s just mad we used the company card for midnight corn dogs and combat boots,” Zoey replied, rummaging through a drawer full of glitter-stained throwing knives.

Your face twisted, half-crumpled with disappointment, but something else flickered there too—pain, quiet and sharp. Mira saw it first. The flicker of someone who’d bet their heart on this moment.

“I like your shoes,” Zoey said suddenly. It was a weird pivot. “Wait. No. Your lyrics.” She blinked. “You… wrote ‘Veritas’? The one with the drop about glass lungs and stolen words?”

Your breath hitched. You nodded.

Rumi blinked. Mira paused mid-crunch.

“…That was you?” Mira said, brow twitching upward like someone catching the scent of something unexpectedly spicy. “That track slaps.”

A rare silence filled the room. Even the lights above them seemed to hum in approval.

Rumi tilted her head. Something sharp in her softened—just a fraction.

“…Wait here,” she said. Then, under her breath—but loud enough for everyone to hear—

“If I find out you’re talented and humble I’m going to scream.”