The last show ended like a ceiling collapsing.
Not because anything went wrong, but because everybody finally hit the point where adrenaline could not carry them anymore. The lights went down, the chants kept going even after the last note died, and the backstage hallway felt like a tunnel full of sweating bodies, laughter that sounded half broken, and people holding each other as they had just survived a storm together. The crew moved on instinct. The artists moved on muscle memory. Even Dayo, who usually stayed sharp after performances, felt his bones whispering that they were done.
They got back to the hotel like a convoy that had been running for weeks without stopping.
