The Performance

Ten minutes earlier, backstage…

Behind the curtain, perfume, sweat, and nerves thickened the air. Contestants moved in hushed tension. Some paced, whispering final rehearsals. Others sat, heads bowed, fingers twitching over invisible notes. The occasional clatter of shifting props cut through the quiet, but beyond the heavy curtain, the crowd buzzed.

Markus, a Demi-Wolf, stood before a mirror, his reflection sharp under the glow of vanity bulbs. His wolf ears twitched at every little sound, his tail flicking behind him, restless. The room buzzed with tension, but he forced himself to stay still.

His scarlet eyes, chilling to anyone who met them directly, betrayed every unspoken thought. The face in the mirror looked composed, unreadable. But his hands—still shook. This isn't just a performance, Markus thought. This is my chance.

He gripped the edge of the vanity, pressing his palms against the cool surface, shutting his eyes. Voices around him faded, the nerves clawing at his chest dulled. In his mind, there was only the stage. The music. The moment.

When his eyes opened again, the nerves hadn't disappeared, but his resolve burned brighter. His tail flicked once. He straightened his shirt and took one last glance in the mirror.

Out of nowhere—laughter.

From across the hall, laughter caught Markus's ears. Contestant Five held court, his polished demeanor gleaming under the lights. His voice carried just enough to be overheard, loud and easy.

"It's all about presentation," he declared smoothly, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "You can't just play. You have to own it."

Markus's ears twitched. His jaw tightened. But he didn't look. Didn't react.

His fingers brushed over the violin on the table beside him, feeling the polished wood. Focus on the music, he thought. The door creaked open. A stagehand poked their head inside, clipboard in hand.

"Next up!"

Markus barely noticed as another contestant—a tall boy with a cello slung over his back—strode past, steps brimming with confidence. The door clicked shut behind him.

And Markus was alone with his thoughts again.

His hand hovered over the violin before picking it up. The weight steadied him. The feel of the strings, the curve of the wood—this was what mattered.

A small voice broke the silence.

"Your violin is really nice."

Markus turned.

A young girl stood nearby, clutching her violin close. She couldn't have been more than twelve, her wide eyes a mix of nerves and something close to awe.

Markus softened. "Thanks. Yours looks great too."

She swallowed. "My teacher says I have to be perfect."

Markus crouched slightly, meeting her gaze. "Hey, you practiced, right?"

She nodded hesitantly.

"Then don't worry about being perfect," he said. "Just play for yourself. Forget the audience, forget the judges—just enjoy it."

A beat. Then her grip loosened. The tension in her shoulders eased. A small, almost shy smile crossed her face.

"Okay. Thanks, mister."

"Markus," he corrected gently. "Good luck out there."

She nodded quickly and scampered off, holding her violin a little looser.

Markus exhaled, adjusting his tie one last time. That small moment, that tiny shift in someone else's nerves… it helped.

The stagehand reappeared. "Markus Seiryuu Sentryon? You're up."

Markus inhaled sharply, gripping his violin tighter. His heartbeat pounded, but his voice was steady. "Right. Thanks."

He left the booth, violin in hand, walking slowly down the dim hallway that led toward the wings of the stage. The noise from the audience was faint but steady now, like a tide rising behind the curtains.

As he rounded a corner, he heard voices ahead. He didn't pay them any mind.

But suddenly, the words became clearer.

"I did absolutely spectacular!" Contestant Five's voice rang out—loud, proud, self-satisfied. "You did!" another boy said quickly, laughing. "Nobody could top that. Seriously."

"The last guy's gonna be such a drag after my performance."

The arrogance hung in the air, thick enough to taste. So cocky it was almost gag-worthy. Markus walked up behind them, expression unreadable. His crimson sampaku eyes, already striking under normal circumstances, now carried a quiet intensity that made both boys freeze mid-sentence. His gaze was cold. Focused. Wolf-like.

Contestant Five turned and instantly stiffened. Even the smug grin slipped from his face. Markus didn't say anything at first—he just stared at them. And something in his eyes made them flinch, like they'd touched a live wire.

Then, quietly, "Which way's the stage?"

Neither of them responded immediately. One boy blinked, hesitated, then slowly raised his hand and pointed.

Markus gave a small nod. "Thanks."

He walked past them without another word, his tail brushing behind him, steady and composed.

For a moment, the two were silent.

Suddenly, "Holy crap," the other boy whispered. "Did you see his eyes?"

Contestant Five didn't respond. His shoulders had tensed. He didn't look so sure anymore.

Markus kept walking, each step taking him closer to the curtain, to the stage, to the crowd waiting on the other side.

Behind him, the silence didn't last.

Contestant Five rushed forward. "W-wait!" he called out, voice cracking slightly. "Sorry, man! I—I didn't mean anything by it!"

Markus stopped.

He turned halfway, eyes narrowed—not angry, just surprised.

"Sorry?" he echoed.

Contestant Five stood frozen a few feet back, suddenly looking like a completely different person. His posture was tense, the usual smugness wiped from his face.

"I wasn't talking about you," Contestant Five said nervously.

Markus said slowly, "I didn't even hear what you were saying."

The hallway went quiet again. For a moment, Contestant Five stared at him, mouth slightly open. Then he let out a nervous, too-loud laugh—forced and awkward—before turning on his heel and walking briskly away without another word.

Markus blinked.

Then shook his head and kept moving.

He wasn't sure what that was about, but he didn't have time to care.

He reached the end of the hallway. The edge of the curtain loomed in front of him, bright stage light spilling through the seams.

The applause from the last contestant faded.

He stepped into position.

A tall shadow behind the curtain, violin at his side.

At six feet tall, Markus already stood out, but under the stage lights—it would be something else entirely.

He closed his eyes. Breathed in. And waited.

The speaker crackled to life, and the announcer's voice rang out across the theater: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our final contestant of the evening—Markus Seiryuu Sentryon!"

On stage—

Markus moved as if the violin was an extension of himself. The bow swept across the strings with ease, his tail flicking lightly in rhythm. The sound filled the space around him—not loud, not forceful, but full. Complete.

In the audience—

Arnik leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That's it," he said under his breath.

Rose gave a short nod, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Relax. He's fine."

"You know what I mean," Arnik replied, his tone steady. Certain.

Her smile faded into something more honest. "Yeah. I do."

Kai's eyes followed every movement. He adjusted his glasses but didn't speak right away.

Then, quietly, "Every note's exact."

Even Aika had leaned in, chin in hand, her green eyes focused on the stage.

"…Okay," she said. "This is actually worth staying awake for."

The tempo picked up. Markus's fingers moved faster, precise. The music rose, sharp and clean. It didn't demand attention—didn't have to.

"Who is he?" someone whispered from the second row.

"He plays like it's natural," came the reply.

Markus's scarlet eyes didn't leave the strings. His bow came down one last time, driving the final note forward with quiet force.

Silence followed.

No movement. No sound. Just a single note, hanging in the air like a breath that refused to end. A second slipped by. And another. The applause did not erupt—it rose.

Firm. Intentional. A wave of sound that grew with certainty, the kind born not from surprise, but from understanding. Everyone in the room knew exactly what they had just witnessed.

Markus lowered the violin. His shoulders lifted and fell with a measured breath. His scarlet eyes swept across the audience—not in search of praise, but simply to take in the moment.

Arnik was already on his feet. "That is it," he said again, this time with unmistakable conviction.

Rose waved him down, grinning wide. "You killed it, Markus!"

Kai clapped slowly, rhythmically. "Not bad," he added, like it was the most natural conclusion in the world.

Aika joined in, her hands moving, her gaze unwavering. "Impressive," she murmured.

Backstage, Contestant Five had already turned away. His jaw clenched, arms crossed tightly.

He did not speak.

He simply stepped into the shadows—and did not return.

Near the curtain, the young girl from earlier stood still, her small hands wrapped around her own violin.

"He's really good," she whispered, barely audible beneath the crowd.

Markus offered a quiet bow.

The applause continued—steady, unbroken.

And for once, he was not thinking about nerves.

There was no need.

Everything had gone exactly as it should have.

This was not just a performance.

It was proof.