The aftershocks of Kris Windsor's audition reverberated through Mia Brown long after the applause died down. She walked out of the auditorium in a daze, the hum of the departing students fading into the loud buzzing in her ears. It wasn't just shock; it was a profound disorientation. The Kris she knew – knew-the arrogant, smirking brat, the one who lived to annoy her – had vanished on that stage, replaced by a captivating, raw talent. His voice, resonant and deep, the way he moved, the intensity in his eyes... it replayed in her mind, a dizzying loop that defied all her preconceived notions. The bet, which had felt like a thrilling game, now loomed, a monstrous weight. It wasn't just about winning a role; it was about acknowledging that Kris Windsor was more, much more, than she had ever allowed herself to believe.
She found James by the technical booth, still meticulously coiling cables, looking focused and content. He glanced up as she approached, a question in his eyes.
"You okay, Mia?" he asked, sensing her unusual quiet. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or Kris Windsor act." He paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "Wait, same thing, right?"
Mia slumped onto a discarded stool, clutching her script. "James," she began, her voice barely a whisper, the usual fire completely gone. "I'm... I'm worried. About the bet. About the results. I thought I had him. I thought he was just going to embarrass himself, and I'd win. But... did you see him?"
James nodded slowly, his surprise evident. "Yeah, I saw him. Couldn't miss it. He was... surprisingly good. Like, good. I didn't see that coming." He sat down on the stool beside her, abandoning his cable-coiling. "So, you're worried he's going to get Lysander? And you might lose the bet?"
Mia buried her face in her hands. "It's not just that he might get it, James. It's... It's how good he was. It completely threw me off. He was... mesmerizing. I don't understand how someone like him, who hates anything creative, who's just... Kris could do that." She looked up, her eyes wide with a mix of frustration and genuine awe. "It's like he's a completely different person on stage. His vibes were just... different."
James leaned back, thoughtfully. "Well, I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day, right? Or, in Kris's case, a broken rich brat can pull off a decent Shakespearean monologue." He saw the turmoil in Mia's eyes and softened his tone. "Look, it was a surprise for everyone. You did great, Mia. You were as passionate as Hermia. So, don't write yourself off yet."
Mia sighed, a long, shaky breath. "But what if... what if he wins? What if I have to do whatever he demands for a week?" The thought was terrifying, but it was the underlying feeling that truly rattled her. She had built her understanding of Kris on predictable arrogance and surface-level annoyance. This raw talent, this unexpected depth, shattered that comfortable framework.
James put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Whatever happens, we'll figure it out. You're Mia Brown, you always find a way to deal with Kris Windsor's antics. Even when those antics involve unexpected bursts of acting brilliance." He gave her a small, comforting smile. "You two have been bickering since freshman year. This is just... a more theatrical version of it. And besides," he added, a glint in his eye, "if he wins, I'll be there to document every single one of his ridiculous demands. For posterity."
Mia managed a weak laugh, the tension easing slightly with James's familiar support. He was her anchor, always. The one who understood her particular brand of chaos, the one she could always vent to, no matter how irrational she sounded. He didn't try to fix it; he just listened, and that was often enough.
As the last of the drama club members began to clear out, Mia was still replaying Kris's audition in her head. The image of him, transformed, commanding the stage, burned vividly in her mind. His resonant voice, the genuine emotion he conveyed... it was a stark contrast to the smug, mocking Kris she knew. His vibes were indeed different on stage. It was unsettling. And, infuriatingly, it was captivating.
That night, sleep utterly eluded Mia. Every time she closed her eyes, Kris's Lysander monologue would play on a loop, his intense gaze fixed somewhere beyond the stage lights, captivating. She was mesmerized, infuriated, and utterly confused. She wanted to tell him. To acknowledge it. To, God forbid, praise him. He had been amazing. He had done good. But her ego, a formidable dragon protecting her pride, stood guard. No. Not. You will not give him the satisfaction.