Evade.
The bullet passes through the space where my head was a millisecond ago—I feel the displacement of air, hear the crack of the shot echoing through the empty theater.
Assassination attempt.
During my audition.
Of COURSE.
My blade is in my hand before I'm fully upright—muscle memory taking over, survival instincts screaming into action. A figure emerges from the darkness of the wing, dressed in black, moving fast.
Too fast.
Professional.
I spin, blade arcing, feeling the resistance as steel meets flesh. Blood sprays—hot, metallic, real—and the figure drops.
One.
More movement in my peripheral vision.
Multiple targets.
Coordinated attack.
I skid forward, dropping off the stage in a controlled fall, using the momentum to put distance between myself and whoever else is coming. The theater floor is hard beneath my ballet shoes—not designed for combat, too thin, too delicate—but I've fought in worse conditions.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Count the enemies.
Count the threats.
Count everything that wants you dead.
Blaze and Jett are already in motion.
I see them in fragments—Blaze's fire blooming in the darkness, illuminating targets I couldn't see, Jett's silentefficiency as he neutralizes threats with the precision I've come to expect from him.
More bullets.
Lots more.
The crack of gunfire echoes through the theater, coming from multiple directions—snipers, probably, positioned in the upper levels, trying to get a clear shot.
At me?
At all of us?
Does it matter?
Sage has guns.
Where did Sage get guns?
The question surfaces and disappears in the same instant as I watch him fire with perfect aim, hitting targets disguised as shadows, as audience members, as innocent bystanders who were anything but.
