The roar of the crowd was still echoing off the stadium walls, pulsing through the floor like the ghost of a heartbeat. Lights were still dimming in rhythmic waves, the last few stagehands were hauling off glitter-slick props, and Bobby Cho was finally sitting down. Slumped, really. Boneless in the hard plastic chair of a backstage hallway like a scarecrow with excellent hair and one too many spreadsheets etched into his brain.

Bobby was still wearing his headset, though the mic had long since bent itself into a sad little semi-circle. His phone buzzed for the ninth time in three minutes—he ignored it. Let the fire wait. Let the fire burn, honestly.

For now, there was confetti on his blazer. Confetti in his hair. Confetti on his clipboard, which lay on the floor beside a half-empty energy drink and the mangled remains of a broken shoe heel Mira had thrown at a demon in the middle of the second encore. Classic Mira. God, he adored her.

Bobby pressed the heel of his palm against his temple and closed his eyes. The ache behind them was equal parts migraine, strobe light residue, and raw, unfiltered relief. The girls had killed it tonight. Absolutely shattered every expectation. Zoey hit a high note that practically sent the pyrotechnics into orbit, Rumi didn’t throw a mic stand at anyone (this time), and no one got actively possessed before the third act.

A win. An actual win.

His throat was dry from yelling over backstage chaos, from screaming cues and barking reminders and begging an intern not to plug a fog machine into a waterlogged outlet. (RIP to Sebastian. Not dead, just fired.) Still, Bobby smiled. Sort of. It was a weird, crooked thing—more tired than happy, but real. One of those rare smiles that only happened when the storm had passed, and the wreckage was done being on fire.

Bobby exhaled a laugh through his nose.

Then choked a little.

Then blinked hard, because no, absolutely not, we are not doing this, we do not cry at concerts we did not perform in, and yet—his vision shimmered traitorously, a glossy sheen forming in the corners of his eyes.

He sniffed. “Nope. Nope. Just confetti. Definitely confetti.”

Bobby wiped at his face with a crumpled napkin someone had shoved in his blazer pocket earlier—possibly Zoey, possibly a stage demon with a weird sense of humor—and stared at the ceiling like it might give him a break. It did not. One lone shred of pink glitter paper floated down and landed directly in his lap.

Mockery.

Of course.

Bobby leaned back until his head thumped against the wall behind him and sighed again. Deep this time. From the bones. The kind of sigh that said I love this job, but this job is killing me, and I’d die twice for it anyway.

His phone buzzed again. This time he didn’t even flinch. Just muttered, “If it’s about the pyrotechnics, tell them I’ve already lost my eyebrows and soul. They can’t take anything else.”

A voice crackled over his headset—unintelligible. Probably someone asking if Rumi had seen their demon goat again or if they’d need to "contain the situation" like last time.

Contain it. Sure. Good luck with that.

Bobby smiled again, just a bit more bitterly, and let his eyes fall closed. He’d get up in a minute. Maybe two. Probably ten.

Just… a break. Just until the glitter stopped falling.

And the confetti stopped… stinging.