The next show did not begin with a bang.
It began with a whisper.

No spotlight, no fanfare. Just Livia stepping into the glow like a shadow remembering how to be a woman.

The audience, already hers, leaned forward. They no longer clapped when she entered. They listened.

She held up a small cloth doll—frayed, ugly, handmade.
“I need a volunteer,” she said, but her eyes chose the woman in the third row before her words did.
“You have a secret. Stitch it into this.”

A pin. A thread. A trembling hand.
No one heard what was whispered, but everyone felt it.

Livia touched the doll’s head.
And the room… sighed.

Whispers crawled up the walls. Names. Dates. A scream caught in reverse. Then—

“I never wanted the child.”

Silence. A heartbeat of stillness. Then laughter, unsure and tinged with fear.
The woman’s eyes welled with something ancient.

Ezra heard it, too. Not with ears. But inside his skull.
It wasn’t mentalism.

It was intrusion.

From the side balcony, Alden leaned forward.

“Your shows are growing teeth,” he said quietly to no one, fingers laced, chin resting on gloved hands.

Livia, onstage, turned her head as if she’d heard him across the veil of illusion.
She smiled.
Not kindly.

When the curtain fell that night, Ezra did not wait in his seat.

He went backstage.

He didn’t knock.

Because something told him... she already knew he was coming.

He didn't knock.
Not because he was rude.
But because a man like Ezra didn’t need permission to enter a room—especially one made of smoke and mirrors.

Backstage was a cathedral of broken props and perfumed dust. The air reeked of roses and secrets. And there she was. Sitting on a crate, peeling off her gloves like she was undressing a corpse.

Livia didn’t look up.

“You’re late,” she said.

Ezra smiled. For once, he wasn’t sure if he was in control.

And it thrilled him.

Livia finally looked up.

There was no surprise in her eyes—only amusement, like she’d been expecting this encounter long before Ezra decided to walk in.

“Didn’t think you’d come backstage,” she mused, twirling one of her gloves like a noose. “I imagined you preferred the view from the shadows.”

Ezra chuckled softly. “And miss the rehearsal of a lifetime? No, Miss Livia. I think it’s time we shared a stage.”

She rose, slowly, like smoke unraveling from a dying candle.

“In that case,” she whispered, eyes burning into his pride, “try not to blink.”

Livia stepped closer, close enough that Ezra could feel the static between them—like an old radio dial stuck between truth and lie.

She extended her hand. “Let’s play.”

 it wasn’t just an invitation. It was a challenge. She led Ezra onto the stage as part of the act—smiling, poised, and unbothered.

To the crowd, it looked like a bold collaboration.
To them?
It was psychological war.

Every illusion, every word, became a blade.
And only they could see the blood.

Ezra hesitated. Just for a second. That was enough.

The moment he touched her palm, the room shifted.

The walls melted into velvet. The light turned sepia. Suddenly, he was standing in a version of the theatre, empty but echoing—his memories painted onto the curtains. His childhood. His failures. His worst secrets.

Her voice echoed from everywhere, and nowhere.

“Tell me, Ezra. If I know all your tricks… do you still matter?”

He didn’t flinch.

But he did sweat.

Ezra blinked once. Just once.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It was elegant. Dangerous. Like a scalpel being unsheathed.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, turning slowly within her illusion. “You think you’ve stepped into my mind. But it’s you who’s inside mine.”

Suddenly, the scene cracked.

The stage warped again—this time into something colder, sharper. A spiral staircase of mirrors rose around them, each reflecting not Livia’s illusion, but her—twisted, fractured, multiplied. A hall of herself.

Ezra’s voice rang out:
“Let’s see how well the puppet dances without her strings.”

Then Livia smiles—not shaken, but thrilled.

She steps between the mirrors like a phantom, each reflection flickering as she passes.

“So you do bite,” she says, her voice smooth as velvet knives. “Good. I'd hate to break a toy too easily.”

With a snap of her fingers, the mirrors shatter—not outward, but inward, folding the illusion back onto Ezra. Now he’s standing center stage again, but this time, he’s the one in the spotlight. Alone. Watched. Judged.

The silence is deafening.

Livia’s voice slithers from above:
“Your move, maestro.”

Ezra gritted his teeth.

The lights blurred. Applause echoed—then reversed. His heartbeat sounded like a ticking clock, but too slow. Too calculated.

This isn’t real.

He dug into his coat pocket, fingers wrapping around something small and familiar: a silver coin—his totem. One side worn smooth, the other engraved.

He flipped it.

Watched it spin.

Watched it fall.

And it didn’t.

It hovered.

His breath caught.

“Damn you,” he whispered, eyes searching the shadows. “This isn’t just illusion. You’re rewriting gravity.”

Livia’s voice coiled behind him like a whisper inside his skull.
“No, Ezra. I’m rewriting you.”