Backstage smells like powder, sweat, and panic. Costumes hang from every nail like borrowed identities. Performers rush by—a contortionist swearing, a juggler dropping pins, someone crying over broken tap shoes. The stage manager counts down the minutes with a shout that rattles the walls.

Your Selected Character is by the mirror, chest wrapped tight beneath lace and silk, adjusting the wig just so. Their makeup sparkles under harsh light. A queen built for applause.

Tonight’s crowd is big. Rowdy. Hungry for a show.