And as September lifted Demi—not a gag lift, but a genuine, trembling hold—she felt something shift. Not surrender. Not performance. A promise.

We won’t let this place swallow us whole.

“I’m not doing the gag lift,” September finally said.

Demi snorted, pulling a fishnet over one sharp hip. “Lenny’ll dock you.”

September turned. In the harsh backstage light, Demi looked young. Too young for the lines around her mouth. September was twenty-seven. Demi was twenty-four, but she had started at nineteen. That was a different kind of math.

“You’re on in ten,” Demi said, not looking at her. She was already stripping off a mesh top, revealing a ribcage that moved like a concertina when she breathed.

please wait

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