The moment Don's voice cut through the backstage darkness, panic rippled outward like an electric shock.
A few of the injured dancers, recognizing the cold echo, froze in mid-motion, their breath pausing sharply. One dropped a tray of bloodied rags; another instinctively backed against a prop shelf, knocking loose fake skulls that rattled across the floor—clack clack clack—before falling silent.
Those unfamiliar with the sound merely stared wide-eyed into the shadows, confusion tangled with fresh dread.
At the center of it all stood Irene. Her breathing slowed, the muscles in her neck tightening as she tried to hold back a tremor. She swallowed once, her throat dry, and forced herself to speak.
"Use whatever you can for now," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She clutched tighter at the dirty towel wrapped around her injured arm, the blood beginning to seep through the cloth. "I'll... I'll see what I can do once I'm back."
