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--Audition--

The alley was too quiet. Too dark. Neon spilled in from the street—but the shadows swallowed that, too. Within the alleyway stood a white-furred rabbit. Her sun-faded utility jacket hung loose. Her cargo shorts were threadbare. On her right arm were six bracelets, each threaded with a name—worn, smudged, impossible to read from this distance.

She glanced over. The rabbit met her eyes and gave a faint nod. Not respect. Not friendship. Just acknowledgment.

Her eyes flicked up and down Kari once—quick, clinical. The grime dulled her fur, but her expression said more—like she'd run out of tears weeks ago. Kari dared not pry.

A click. A whirr. Kari startled mid-flinch—and froze.

“Face the wall," a smooth voice whispered.

Kari turned—halfway. The camera didn't need more.

A red pulse. A whine. A beep.

A smile stirred in the dark behind them.

“There. Immortalized." A soft chuckle from deeper within the darkness. A faint whirr ticked behind the figure's glowing red eye. The bronze implant nestled in his socket shifted focus—zooming, shimmering, studying.

A line of static danced across the lens—barely a flicker.

Something unseen clicked—soft, mechanical, satisfied.

“Mm. No grace note, chérie—but they never care. They like the twitch. The flinch. The little shivers."

The darkness peeled open, and out slid a lanky sphynx cat. Porcelain-smooth skin, marbled with dusk-gray swirls. His zoot suit shimmered in plum with black chrome pinstripes. At his breast, a neatly folded handkerchief—same deep plum—peeked sharp against a matching rose brooch cast in dull iron. The cut flattered his height too perfectly.

He moved with a fluid, feline ease—each step precise, theatrical, a dancer lost in himself. His amber eyes, rimmed in deliberate black, scanned like blades—feral, unreadable, and too aware. He smelled of rose oil crushed into scorched vanilla—too sweet, too thick. Beneath it, old cigar smoke coiled, chased by the antiseptic sting of something that had to be scrubbed clean. A perfume meant for silk that had seen too many wakes.

“Now then… what lovely little delicacies have wandered into my alley tonight?"

Kari raised the matchbox with the cigarette-smoking sphinx. Alicia mirrored her. He flashed a fanged grin which cut through the dark and swayed forward on the balls of his feet, gloved fingers clasped behind his back like a stage conductor greeting his players.

“Ah… Lapinita Blanca, Nezuhimetta. I could weep with joy. But mascara's expensive—and the train is running late on our little date. Oh, but where are my manners? Felix Smoke. Opening act, closing deal. Impresario of the in-between." He swept into a bow—sharp at the waist, exaggerated. “They never remember the names. But every show needs lovely new faces, bella freschezza." He pivoted slowly. The monocle shimmered again—lines of light dancing faintly across their features. Like a collector inspecting prized pieces under glass. “Mon dieu, and what beautiful fresh faces indeed. Lapinita Blanca—che bambolina perfetta. Too poised to plead."

He purred as he leaned in, before his gaze shifted to Kari. “And Nezuhimetta, darling, those knees—so sweet when they wobble. That smile—trembling. La maison devours it."

He licked his lips. She shifted. He hadn't touched her, but her ears still withered.

“...Kari, Alicia, right? You're chasing fast lights. Faster tips. A stage that pays by the gasp—not the hour. The kind of thrill that pays quick if you learn your lines fast. That's what you're after, isn't it?"

Kari's jaw tensed. No answer came.

Alicia clutched her bracelets. Then nodded.

Her fingers shifted barely—tightening, just once—when Kari flinched. Then stilled again.

Kari's mouth was dry. Her stomach clenched. The alley stank—smoke, piss, and something sweet, soured.

Her weight shifted, breath caught. But the bill... it nailed her there.

She hadn't auditioned. Just landed mid-rehearsal. Already cued. Already cast.

“…Yes."

Alicia gave a small nod, mostly to herself.

"Don't be scared, bamboline. Coraggio, as they say." He made a gentle gesture—hand rising like a magician prepping a reveal. “And Nezuhimetta—posture, posture," he cooed, stepping closer. One hand floated through the air beside her, tracing. Never touching, just sketching potential roles in the space her body might someday fill. “Confidence is key." He clicked his tongue, then clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “Come now. You can trust me. Tell Uncle Felix..." He purred, grinning like it was a private joke.

Her breath caught. Her mouth opened, then shut again. A hiccup of breath.

“My father. He's in the hospital. Needs surgery," she said, barely restraining the emotions behind her lips and eyes as they burned with the need to release.

Alicia's eyes flicked over Kari—her sagging ears, her tear-streaked face, the nervous grip on the matchbox. Her fingers reached out—then dropped. She stilled, offering only a faint nod. “Sister's sick. Other hospital. Five more at home." She blinked back moistness. “I…I have to…"

“Una vera sorellina. Five mouths and no script. Tsk. Quelle tragédie. The City of Prosperity—so cold, so cruel," he whispered again, as if savoring a stolen line. “But that's the stage, isn't it?" Then he leaned in with a coo. “Nezuhimetta with her dying papa. Lapinita Blanca with a whole warren to feed. Ah! Tragedy sells."

A hand to his heart as he bowed, his fanged grin never faltering. “But me? I'm the only one who applauds before the act begins."

She stepped back. Her fingers clenched the ranger keychain.

Felix giggled. Took a soft step closer. “A souvenir from a softer ending?" he cooed.

Alicia's stance shifted. She stepped a little closer to Kari—just enough to place herself between them.

Yet Felix slid around them with oiled ease, cutting off escape without seeming to.

Alicia watched him—unflinching, unreadable.

His eye flicked—just once, whirring faintly. “Come now, bamboline. You know the script. Auditions start in the womb. It's all blocked in advance—birth, bills, burnout. The cradle-to-curtain pipeline." A click of his tongue as he shook his head like a chiding mother.

“They want their starlets barely budding, already priced for market."

He leaned in, voice like burnt sugar. A low pulse of light passed across his monocle lens.

“Smile. Sway. Let the petals drop. That's the choreography."

He clicked his tongue and beckoned with one curling finger.

“I offer you liberty, carina mia. A different kind of performance, seared into memory. Indelible. Undeniable."

A glint of gold as he flicked his wrist, catching the flicker of some neon sign behind him. “…provided you can keep your smile for the spotlight. But this isn't community theater. We don't hold the curtain."

A faint confirmation chime echoed beneath the crimson glow—sharp, mechanical, cold.

Her thoughts flashed back to her father. The bed. The tubes. The silence between heartbeats.

Everything about this screamed run. This wasn't a job you walked from. Not on both legs. The ticking clock pinned her in place.

“What… happens in this job?"

“Why, I'm glad you ask. Lapinita Blanca… the camera will drink you in. So still. So certain. They crave to watch their heroines crack." He grinned, before turning to Kari. “And you, Nezuhimetta—my trembling little bloom. Fragile, yes… but ripe. The kind of heartbreak the stage aches for. It's a lifetime gig, darlings. You don't exit. They write the end when it's time."

He licked his lips. Then leaned in—just a little too close.

“But you, bamboline—you'll shine in the spotlight."

He pivoted suddenly, spreading his arms with theatrical flair.

“Different lighting, of course." His tone dropped. “Less rouge… more rust."

He paused, savoring the thought, then looked back—grin too wide, teeth too sharp.

“Mon dieu. That crowd never leaves hungry."

She blinked too slowly, like her body forgot the rhythm.

She didn't know. Alicia's silence did. Her mouth tightened—like she'd seen it before. And Felix smiled too wide. It couldn't just be about tips.

Her throat burned.

Fall seven times, stand eight.

Her fingers trembled.

Already on the eighth.