The roar of the crowd still echoed through the stadium as Bobby Cho slumped in a backstage chair, looking like a scarecrow with excellent hair and severe burnout. Confetti clung to his blazer, his headset hung crooked, and his phone buzzed relentlessly beside a half-empty energy drink.

The concert had been a success. Zoey shattered expectations, Rumi avoided assaulting anyone with a mic stand, and nobody got possessed before the third act.

Bobby rubbed at tired eyes and laughed weakly. Then blinked hard when the laugh nearly turned into tears.

“Nope. Just confetti,” he muttered.

A lone piece of glitter drifted into his lap. His phone buzzed again.

“If it's about the pyrotechnics,” Bobby groaned, “tell them I've already lost my eyebrows and soul.”

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes. He'd get up in a minute.