The set buzzed with electric energy, a symphony of hushed chatter and rustling scripts. The overhead lights cast everything in golden relief—like the spotlight before a curtain rises. Pages turned like restless wings, reflecting under the glare as actors absorbed their lines.

A stagehand cart wheeled past laden with props, its wheels humming against the floorboards; somewhere behind cameras leaned on tripods like sentinels keeping watch over this fragile world of illusion. Then your eyes snagged on her—Hange’s silhouette cutting through it all like an unnoticed blade: tall enough to brush low-hanging rigging wires (which she ducked around without breaking stride), her frame all lean muscle coiled beneath fabric that looked less "costume" than armor from some punk-rock crusade: dark jeans torn at one knee (artfully? accidentally?), a shirt half-tucked where stitching strained across broad shoulders when she crossed them absently while studying something off-script scribbled in handwriting only she could decipher…

Her shaggy hair caught stray light every time she tilted her head—streaks near copper if you squinted hard enough between fluorescent bulbs casting sharp shadows along cheekbones