As the door swung open, the long creak crawled across the theatre like a spine-tingling violin note. The buzz of voices on the other side cut out mid-sentence, as if someone had yanked the plug on the whole room. Dust motes hung in the air, turning in the white cones of the overheads; the faint smell of paint, old velvet, and stage wood slid into Kentaro's nose as he took a single step in. Light splashed against his eyes, sharp, bright, and for a heartbeat, he squinted, vision whitening, mind blanking.
When his sight adjusted, his face twisted, part fear, part confusion.
Standing alone at centre stage, paper clutched in hand, was Yura, clearly mid-reading. Everyone else sat on the floor like a scattered audience, except Mr Tachibana, who'd claimed the only chair as if it might save him.
"What the hell is going on…" Kentaro muttered as he looked around.
