Look, some people want to perform for the love of the craft.
I'm not one of those people.
I'm in it for the claps, the stage lights, and the future documentary that'll probably call me a "misunderstood genius who peaked in college." And if all goes well, I'll peak twice.
So when Hana showed up outside the theater trying to block our rehearsal, I was ready for my villain origin moment.
She stood there like a perfume ad gone wrong—designer coat, impractical heels, and a smug little smile that made me want to throw glitter in her face. The kind of girl whose dad probably bought the theater building just so she could perform center stage in a spotlight shaped like her initials.
"Jacob," she said, oozing fake concern. "Didn't you get the memo? The theater's booked today. Real performers only."
I fake-gasped. "Oh no. Are you rehearsing a one-woman show again? Let me guess: you play every character, and they all love you?"
She ignored me and turned to Mateo. "You know, it's honestly shocking that someone like you is wasting time on this circus act."
Mateo didn't blink. "You're standing in my way. Move."
For a second, she actually looked nervous. But then she flicked her hair and rolled her eyes like she could afford to buy a personality replacement.
Her two minions stood behind her in matching overpriced scarves. I don't even know if they were enrolled students or just hired extras.
"Listen," Hana continued, slipping on that fake sweetness like a mask, "why don't you boys do something you're better at—like watching from the crowd?"
"Oh, we'll be watching," Nino said, finally looking up from his phone. "Watching you crash and burn in 4K."
She raised an eyebrow. "You think you're competition?"
"No," Nino said. "I think I'm insurance against anyone accidentally winning on pity points."
Her mouth dropped open. I bit back a laugh. Mateo didn't even flinch.
Then Nino kept going, because of course he did.
"Honestly, if your performance is as stiff as your last nose job, we might be safe either way."
I choked. Mateo sighed.
"Anyway," Nino added, taking a long, slow sip from his drink, "we've got a tech rehearsal now. Unless you'd like me to send that little backstage meltdown you had to the judges. I do keep backups. Cloud storage is a gift."
She stepped forward, voice low. "My father—"
"Can't buy talent," I cut in, smiling sweetly. "Or timing. Or charisma. Or an audience that actually likes you."
Mateo walked forward, just enough that she had to step back.
"You've made your threat," he said calmly. "Now leave."
She looked between the three of us—me, smiling like a devil on opening night, Nino still sipping smugly, and Mateo practically radiating "try me."
She spun around with a dramatic huff, heels clicking like failed applause, and stormed off. Her minions followed, one of them tripping over a lighting cable I may or may not have moved into the hallway.
"Do we feel bad?" I asked.
"No," Nino said immediately.
"Not even a little," Mateo added.
I clapped my hands together. "Then boys, I believe we just had our first pre-show triumph."
Nino raised his cup. "To victory, pettiness, and psychological warfare."
"And absolutely no glitter," Mateo added sharply, eyeing me.
I smiled. "No promises."