Luna froze.
Damoné's polished shoes clicked against the wooden stage as he approached. Every step was slow, theatrical like he was waiting for the spotlight to follow him.
He looked... perfect. But too perfect. Like someone had sketched a dream and made it flesh.
His skin was pale and smooth as porcelain. His eyes glowed a faint violet. And his red velvet suit didn't wrinkle, even when he moved as if the very fabric refused to crease under his charm.
"I'm not dreaming," Luna whispered.
"No," he replied. "But I'm flattered you'd think of me that way."
His smile spread wider. It never quite reached his eyes.
"I know what you're thinking," he said softly, circling her like a dance partner. "You opened the script. You heard the music. And now the story's writing you."
"Why are you here?" Luna demanded. Her voice trembled. "What do you want from me?"
"Just a favor." He paused. "And maybe... a finale."
From his pocket, he pulled a red rose. It was vibrant unnaturally so. He twirled it between his fingers like a magician.
"Someone needs to bring this musical to life," he purred. "And you, Luna Tyler's, have the perfect voice for tragedy."
She backed away.
"This isn't a show. This is a death trap."
He cocked his head. "Everything worth watching is. Haven't you ever loved something that hurt you?"
Silence.
Her fingers curled into fists.
"You're the one who killed Candi," she said.
He shrugged. "She sang the wrong note. The show didn't like that. It's very... picky."
Luna felt rage bloom in her chest, hot and full.
"Leave me alone."
But Damoné stepped closer, his eyes glowing brighter now. "You can't run from the lead, Luna. The show must go on."
He extended the rose.
"Take it. And I promise no more accidents. No more surprises. Just stardom."
She reached toward it. Her fingers trembled. The petals seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.
Then
"HEY!"
Theo burst through the stage door, flashlight in hand, breathless.
"Luna! What are you—?"
The moment shattered.
The mirror behind Damoné rippled, and he stepped backward into the glass like it was water. Gone.
The rose hit the stage with a thud. It blackened instantly, turning to ash.
Luna stared, chest heaving.
"Who—what—was that?" Theo asked.
She didn't answer. Instead, she bent down and picked up the only thing left behind: a fresh script page, handwritten in red ink.
She read aloud:
"ACT TWO: THE FIRST TO FALL IS NEVER THE LAST."
Later that night, Luna and Theo sat in her dorm room, the cursed script between them, lit only by fairy lights and fear.
"He came out of the mirror," she whispered. "Like he'd been waiting. Like the story needed him to appear."
Theo flipped through the old script again. His fingers stopped on the dedication page.
"For those who love too deeply to live."
"I think this thing isn't just a script," he said. "I think it's a spell. And we activated it when we sang that song."
Luna thought about Damoné's words.
You can't run from the lead.
"I don't think I'm the lead," she said.
Theo glanced up. "Then who is?"
Just then, a voice rang through the hallway:
"Five, six, seven, eight!"
Percy's unmistakable war cry.
Theo sighed. "He's rehearsing. Still."
Luna stood.
"No," she said slowly. "He's summoning."
They raced down the hallway to the small studio. Behind the door, light flickered red.
Inside, Percy stood center room, drenched in sweat, moving like a man possessed. The old phonograph player one that hadn't worked in years blared a tango no one recognized.
He spun. He leapt. He mouthed lyrics silently.
Then he stopped. His eyes met Luna's.
And for a moment, his pupils turned pitch black.