Well, here we are, again. Confidential and Exposure are finished, framed, and hanging on the wall of my heart forever. So, what’s a writer to do when she’s hopelessly sentimental about two fictional men she will never stop missing?

Write (or in my case, post) more, obviously.

I’m thrilled (and slightly unhinged) to introduce Stage Fright! Consider this my attempt to post so spontaneously that I don’t have time to sit around and mourn the end of an era. It’s called productive distraction, and I (hope that I) am excellent at it.

I really hope you enjoy stepping into this new story!

Enjoy 😋

-----

The world outside Mike Shinoda’s window was a muted painting, all hazy grey sky and sluggish traffic, but inside, the reality was far starker. Here, beneath the unblinking glare of fluorescent lights, the color palette was exclusively beige and despair. His kingdom was a six-by-six-foot cubicle, walls upholstered in a fabric that felt like synthetic moss, and his throne was an ergonomic chair that constantly whispered promises of lumbar support it never quite delivered.

The only music was the syncopated rhythm of his own making: the tap-tap-tap of his keyboard as he input data, the soft whir of the computer fan, and the occasional, soul-deep sigh that escaped him before he could stifle it. He ran a hand over the crown of his head, his fingers brushing against the short, coarse bristles of his buzz-cut black hair, a low-maintenance habit that felt less like a style and more like a surrender. At twenty-eight, he looked the part of a man who had efficiently streamlined his life, right down to the patchy, somewhat reluctant beard that shadowed his jaw—a testament to more aspiration than follicular commitment.

He was processing his forty-seventh insurance claim of the week, a dispute over water damage from a burst pipe that had ruined a collection of, according to the claimant, "irreplaceably valuable" vintage baseball cards. Mike’s job was to determine a replaceable value. It was a profession built on the corpse of sentiment, and he was its chief coroner.

Tap. Denied. The supporting photos were inconclusive. Tap. Approved, partial reimbursement. The plumber’s report suggested pre-existing wear. Each click of the mouse was a tiny, precise hammer blow, nailing another shingle onto the roof of his very sensible, very secure, and utterly desolate life.

His mind, desperate for an escape hatch, drifted to the evening ahead. Wednesday. Grocery night. The ritual was as immutable as the tides. He’d drive to the same supermarket, park in the same general area, and weave his cart through the same aisles. The highlight of the excursion would be the internal debate between the pre-marinated salmon and the chicken breasts. The salmon was easier, but the chicken was more versatile. It was a choice that felt weighty only because so few others in his life did.

Saturday loomed after that, a dutiful checkpoint on the calendar. His turn to drive to his parents’ house for dinner. His brother, Jason, would be there, smelling faintly of disinfectant and fryer oil from his shift as manager at the family-style restaurant where he’d worked since high school. Their mother would fret over Jason’s long hours, and their father would ask Mike, with a tone that hovered between curiosity and criticism, if he’d given any more thought to "moving into management." They would eat, make stilted conversation about the weather and the neighbors, and Mike would drive back to his quiet, two-bedroom, one-bath apartment—a space that felt less like a home and more like a very well-appointed waiting room.

The only person who ever pierced the bubble of his self-imposed routine was Joe Hahn. Joe, his best friend since a fortuitous pairing in a high school graphic design class, was a splash of vibrant color on Mike’s grey canvas. He was the one who called with last-minute, terrible ideas that Mike always, eventually, got roped into. Mike knew it was only a matter of time before his phone buzzed with Joe’s name, luring him away from another night of silence and spreadsheet updates. He both dreaded and craved the disruption.

Definitely the chicken, he decided, mentally mapping his route through the store. And rice. And maybe—

A soft squeak of wheels, followed by a cloud of cloying, artificial vanilla scent, violently yanked him back to the present. The world of salmon and chicken evaporated, replaced by the very real, very present reality of Anna Hillinger.

“So? Are you?”

Mike didn’t startle. He had developed a preternatural awareness of her approach, a survival instinct honed by months of similar ambushes. He finished typing a line into the claim notes—water saturation patterns inconsistent with stated timeline—before he slowly, deliberately, turned his head.

Anna was peering over the fabric-lined partition, her chin resting on her folded arms. She was younger too, in her mid-twenties, with a perpetually cheerful expression framed by bangs and dark brown hair that fell in soft, carefully styled waves. Today she wore a bright cerulean blue top that seemed to aggressively reject the cubicle’s beige gloom, and a pair of large, silver hoop earrings that swung like pendulums with her every movement.

“Am I what, Anna?” he asked, his voice the same flat, professional monotone he used to explain co-pay structures.

“Doing anything important,” she clarified, with a wave of her hand that seemed to dismiss the forty-seven claims, the water damage, the entire foundation of his day’s work.

It was a conversational gambit he knew well. A polite ‘no’ was an engraved invitation for a lengthy soliloquy on office politics. A ‘yes’ was a challenge to her worldview, one she would happily spend the next half-hour dismantling. He reached for the flimsiest of shields. “A bit swamped, actually. This water damage file is a nightmare.”

“Great!” she chirped, completely undeterred. She planted her feet and gave a powerful shove, her office chair rolling smoothly into the narrow opening of his cubicle and bumping gently against his footrest. She was now fully entrenched in his territory, a whirlwind of statement necklaces and relentless narrative momentum.

Mike offered a tight-lipped smile, a non-committal nod already forming in his neck muscles. He didn’t dislike Anna, not in a way that required active energy. Initially, her presence had been a neutral fact of his environment, like the hum of the server room. The shift had occurred months ago, when he’d muttered a sleep-deprived “Mornin’” on his way to the coffee machine. She had taken that single, grunted syllable as a clear and binding signal of profound friendship. Now, he was a captive audience to the epic saga of other people’s lives.

“…and so Brenda from Accounting said she saw him leaving the downtown bar with her after the holiday party, but Mark in Marketing swears he saw him and his wife at the movies just last weekend, but then I saw the credit card statement for the boutique hotel from that weekend he was supposedly at his ‘fishing trip,’ and let me tell you, the charges for room service were not for one person, if you catch my drift…”

Her voice was a rapid-fire torrent of names, places, and speculative drama. Mike’s gaze drifted back to his monitor. Claimant’s policy includes a specific rider for collectibles. He nodded slowly, the motion robotic. Tap. He approved the claim, but at a fraction of the stated value. A small, petty victory for order over chaos.

Anna paused, finally, for a dramatic breath, her eyes locking onto his with an intense, demanding expectation. “Like, seriously! Can you believe he had the audacity to do that? To his wife?”

Mike’s social reserves, perpetually hovering near empty, bottomed out. A dry, bone-weary sarcasm, the last line of defense for an introvert under siege, slipped out before his internal filter could engage. “Astounding. It’s almost as if human beings are complex creatures capable of breathtaking acts of selfishness.”

Anna’s eyes widened, sparkling with vindicated delight. She completely missed the deadpan delivery, hearing only vigorous, empathetic agreement. “Right?! Oh my god, I knew you’d understand! You always see right to the heart of it! So, anyway, then HR somehow got wind of it…”

She launched back into the saga with renewed vigor, and Mike let the words become a meaningless buzz, a swarm of locusts against the soundproofed glass of his concentration. He was an island in a sea of grey fabric and corporate artifice, counting down the minutes, the seconds, until he could escape to the one person who promised a different, more creative kind of chaos—the one person who was, he knew with a sinking certainty, going to call at any moment and ask him for a favor that would irrevocably dismantle the quiet, predictable world he had so carefully built.

Anna was deep into her forensic analysis of the hotel’s mini-bar charges—"Who orders two bottles of champagne and a single bag of peanuts unless it's a romantic rendezvous?"—when a vibration against the cheap particle board of his desk cut through her monologue, right on time. Mike’s phone lit up, the screen displaying a picture of Joe Hahn making a ridiculous face, his name flashing like a lifeline.

“Sorry, Anna, I have to take this,” Mike said, the words coming out in a rushed but firm burst as he snatched the phone. “It’s… uh… a claimant.”

“Oh! Sure, no problem!” Anna said, her train of thought effortlessly rerouted. “I’ll just… fill you in on the rest later!” She gave a little finger-wave, pushed off from his desk, and wheeled herself back to her own cubicle with a final, significant wiggle of her eyebrows.

Mike waited for the partition fabric to stop swaying before he connected the call, bringing the phone to his ear. “Joe,” he said, and for the first time that day, a small, genuine smile touched his lips, softening the tense line of his mouth.

“Mikey! My man! You breathing corporate air or have they finally suffocated your soul with a TPS report?” Joe’s voice was a burst of staticky, creative energy, a sonic boom in the quiet sterility of the office.

“It’s a close race,” Mike deadpanned, leaning back in his chair and swiveling away from the monitors. “What’s up? You sound… energized. That’s usually a dangerous sign for me.”

“Energized? Dude, I’m caffeinated. I’m a vision quest made of espresso and sheer will. How are you? And don’t give me the ‘fine’ thing. Give me the real dirt.”

Mike chuckled softly, the sound rusty from disuse. “The real dirt is that I’m currently adjudicating the emotional and financial fallout of a burst pipe on a man’s prized baseball card collection. It’s as thrilling as it sounds. My big plan for tonight involves a thrilling debate between chicken and salmon at Trader Joe’s.”

“A real rockstar,” Joe shot back, his grin audible. “Well, prepare to have your mind blown. I’m directing the new Lakewood Amateur Theatre production. It’s a swashbuckling historical romance, ‘The Thief and the Marquess.’ Set in the French Court. It’s got everything: duels, secret identities, forbidden love, really tight pants.”

“Tight pants, you say,” Mike countered, playing along. “The cornerstone of any great artistic endeavor.”

“Don’t you dare mock the pants! This is serious art, Shinoda! The passion! The drama! The… the… theatricality of it all! It’s for the community theatre, totally open, and we actually snagged some really solid talent this year. I’m telling you, the vision for this thing… it’s all right here.” Mike could practically hear him tapping his own temple.

“It sounds… ambitious,” Mike offered, a note of genuine affection in his voice. “I’m happy for you, Joe. Really. It’s good to see you throwing yourself into something like this.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, a tactical pause Mike recognized all too well. It was the calm before the ask.

“So, about that…” Joe began, his tone shifting into what Mike privately called his ‘wheedle-voice.’ “The thing is… I’m desperate for bodies, man. My set guy bailed. Just come help build sets. I need someone with steady hands who won’t glue themselves to a throne. No acting, I swear on my copy of A Director’s Journey. Just you, a hammer, and some plywood. Please?”

Mike’s spine went rigid. “What? No. Joe, no. I have plans.”

“You have chicken,” Joe retorted, seeing right through him with infuriating accuracy. “You have plans to stare at your walls and maybe alphabetize your bookshelf for fun. You have nothing better to do, and we both know you have nothing to do at all, actually. This is me, Mike. I know you.”

“Knowing me is one thing,” Mike shot back, his voice dropping, “conscripting me into your community theatre army is another. The answer is no.”

“Mike, come on,” Joe pleaded, the easy-going tone beginning to fray. “I’m on my knees here. Metaphorically. The floor is pretty dirty.”

“Stay on your metaphorical knees, then. My answer stands.”

There was a pause on the other end, a tactical shift. Joe’s voice became light, teasing, probing for a weakness. “Okay, fine, sets are a no-go. But just out of pure, hypothetical curiosity… what would you do if you were magically, coincidentally, all of a sudden… an actor? Like, if fate somehow dropped a script in your lap?”

Mike didn’t even hesitate. “I would walk out. On the spot. I would turn around, get in my car, and drive away without looking back.”

Joe laughed, but it was strained. “See, that’s the anxiety talking! It’s easier than it looks, I promise! We need more actors, too. It’s a big cast! It could be a small role! A non-speaking part! You could be ‘Guard #2’ or ‘Angry Peasant.’ You’d just have to stand there and look… you know. Guard-like. Or sufficiently peased.”

“Peased isn’t a word, and the fact that you just made it up is exactly why I’m not doing this,” Mike said, his voice tight with rising panic. “Joe, no. I can’t. The idea of people looking at me… of having to perform… I’d rather process a thousand claims for water-damaged baseball cards.”

“But it’s fun,” Joe insisted, the desperation creeping back in, stripping away the teasing. “It’s getting out of your head! It’s being part of something! It’s… it’s community, Mike! It’s people! Real, live, slightly weird people who don’t care about insurance claims!”

“I care about insurance claims!” Mike argued, though the statement felt hollow even to him. “It’s my job to care! And my hobby is not being looked at by an audience!”

“Please,” Joe said, and the word was quiet, stripped bare. “Mike. I am begging you. I am not above this. I need you. The sets are one thing, but I need bodies. Reliable ones. You are the most reliable person I know. If you say you’ll be there, you’ll be there. I can’t say that for half the people who’ve already signed up. Just… just come to the read-through. That’s all. Just sit there. Hold a script. You don’t have to say a word. If you hate it, you can leave, and I will never, ever ask you for a theatrical favor again. I swear on our friendship.”

The line went silent save for the low hum of the phone connection and the frantic beating of Mike’s own heart. He could feel the walls of his resistance crumbling. Joe never begged. He cajoled, he manipulated, he inspired, but he never outright begged. The weight of his best friend’s genuine distress was a physical pressure in his chest.

He closed his eyes, envisioning the quiet of his apartment, the safety of his couch, the predictable simplicity of his chicken dinner. Then he envisioned Joe, alone in a church basement or a high school auditorium, watching his dream fall apart because no one would just show up.

Another sigh, this one of profound, soul-deep resignation. “Okay. Fine. Fine.” The word tasted like defeat. “But I am only building sets. And if you’re desperate for bodies to just… stand around on stage, I’ll run a spotlight from the back. But I am not on stage. I am not speaking. I am a stagehand. A ghost in the rafters. Are we crystal clear? This is my final offer.”

Joe’s response was immediate, a smooth, easy-going river of assurance that felt like a balm after the tense negotiation. “Don’t worry, man. I just need your hands, not your face. You have my word. No stage, no lines. You’re my behind-the-scenes savior.”

The relief in Joe’s voice was so palpable it was almost painful. “You’re the best, Mike. Seriously, the best. I’ve gotta run—the lead actress just showed up and she’s wearing a beret, this is either very good or very, very bad. I’ll text you the address. See you at seven!”

“Yeah, okay,” Mike said, the word weary. “See you then.”

He hung up and dropped the phone onto his desk with a soft thud. He stared at the denied water damage claim on his screen, the grey text blurring. He really, really didn’t want to go. The thought of a room full of enthusiastic, theatrical strangers made his social anxiety prickle like a thousand tiny needles. But Joe never asked. And for Joe, for the one person who had consistently dragged him out of his own head since they were teenagers, he would pick up a hammer.

What could possibly go wrong?

---

The address Joe had texted led Mike to a slightly dilapidated but charming community playhouse, a relic of old Lakewood with an art deco marquee that read "LAKEWOOD PLAYHOUSE" in faded, elegant letters. He sat in his car for a long moment, engine off, watching people filter through the main doors. They were all shapes and sizes, but they shared a common energy—a loose-limbed, chatty vibrancy that felt alien to him. For a fleeting second, he felt a flicker of something other than dread. There was a charm to it, a sense of shared purpose. It was… nice.

Then the reality crashed down. He was now part of that purpose. He would have to walk in there, find Joe, and be introduced to a room full of these vibrant, undoubtedly outgoing people. He’d have to make small talk. He’d have to have opinions on swashes and buckles. The chicken he’d hastily eaten for dinner turned over in his stomach, a leaden weight of unease. He groaned, letting his forehead rest against the cool steering wheel. This was a monumental mistake.

A sharp, sudden rapping on his driver’s side window made him jolt so hard he nearly hit his head on the roof. His heart hammered against his ribs as he whipped his head around.

Grinning back at him from the other side of the glass was Joe Hahn. His black hair was a masterpiece of artful, textured spikes, and he wore a dark graphic t-shirt for an obscure electronic artist under a worn leather jacket. The glint in his eyes was pure, unadulterated mischief.

Mike scowled, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Don’t do that,” he hissed, his voice shaky with adrenaline.

“You were having a whole dramatic moment in there. I was providing a narrative interruption,” Joe said, completely unrepentant. He clapped Mike on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Come on Marquess, let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

“I’m not a marquess, I’m a stagehand,” Mike corrected, but Joe was already striding away, forcing Mike to scramble out of his car and lock it before chasing after him.

“Stagehand, marquess, potato, potahto,” Joe called over his shoulder, pushing open the two heavy, ornate front doors as if he owned the place. “The spirit is what matters!”

Mike opened his mouth to deliver another retort, but the words died on his lips as he stepped across the threshold.

The air left his lungs in a soft whoosh.

It was sensory overload of the highest order. The lobby was grand but worn, with a high, vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of dusty velvet curtains, old wood, and the faint, sweet smell of makeup and hairspray. And the sound—it was a cacophony of a dozen different conversations, laughter that echoed, the scrape of a chair, someone running through a vocal scale in a corner. After the sterile, hushed world of his cubicle, it was like being plunged into a vibrant, chaotic ocean. His brain, so accustomed to quiet order, short-circuited, trying and failing to process it all.

“Breathe, Mikey,” Joe murmured, grabbing his elbow and steering him through the bustling lobby. “Okay, quick tour. You’ll get lost otherwise. This,” he announced, sweeping his arm through the crowded space, “is the lobby. Where dreams and egos mingle pre-show. That archway leads to the house—the audience seats. We’ll go there in a sec. First, the nerve center.”

He pulled Mike through a side door marked ‘CREW ONLY’ and into a narrower, more cluttered hallway. The walls were lined with framed playbills from decades past. “Green room’s down there on the left,” Joe said, pointing. “It’s where the actors ‘relax,’ which is a fancy word for ‘panic quietly.’ You can usually find the best snacks there, but also the highest concentration of drama. Tread carefully.”

Before Mike could process that, Joe was on the move again, pushing through another heavy door. “And this,” he declared, his voice echoing, “is where the magic gets built.”

They emerged backstage. The controlled chaos was even more intense here. The space was a labyrinth of ropes, cables, and towering, unpainted wooden structures that would someday be castle walls. The dusty, sun-bleached smell was stronger here, mixed with the sharp scent of fresh-cut lumber and electrical tape. A woman wielding a power saw sent a spray of sawdust into the air, while two others argued good-naturedly over a bolt of deep blue fabric.

“You might be back here a lot,” Joe said, guiding Mike around a stack of plywood with a vague wave of his hand. “But we’ll get you acquainted with all the behind-the-scenes spots. But first, you gotta meet the people who will be saving our asses.”

He steered Mike towards a small group clustered around a worktable littered with tools, scripts, and a half-eaten box of donuts. A man with buzzed hair, a big goatee, a backwards cap, and a calm, focused demeanor looked up from a heavily annotated clipboard. He was dressed in a simple, clean button-down and dark jeans, the picture of quiet competence.

“Mike, this is Rob Bourdon, our stage manager and the only thing standing between this production and total anarchy. Rob, this is Mike, my best friend and our new guy.”

Rob offered a small, genuine smile and extended a hand. “Rob Bourdon. Glad you're here. We need all the help we can get.” His grip was firm and sure. He picked up a thick, spiral-bound script from the table and handed it to Mike. “Here’s your script. Don’t worry about the highlighted parts yet. Just familiarise yourself with the flow of the scenes for now, so you know what set pieces we need when.”

“Uh, thanks,” Mike managed, taking the script like it was a live bomb. “Mike Shinoda.”

From the other side of the table, another man looked up. He was bald, sported a ginger beard, and a friendly, open face, but he was leaning back in his chair with a roguish ease that suggested he was already halfway into his character.

“And this charmer,” Joe said, “is Dave Farrell. He’s playing Jacques, the Thief’s loyal and dangerously witty accomplice.”

Dave gave Mike an easy, welcoming grin that was utterly disarming. “Dave. But everyone just calls me Phoenix. Welcome to the madness, man. Don’t let Rob’s clipboard intimidate you. It’s mostly for show.” He winked at Rob, who just shook his head with a long-suffering sigh.

Before Mike could formulate a response, a soft, melodic strumming caught his ear. He turned to see a man sitting on a crate in the corner, cradling a lute as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He had a clean, severe buzzcut and a thoughtful, grounded intensity about him.

“And that’s Brad Delson,” Joe said, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. “Our composer and musical director. He’s scoring the whole thing live. Brad, meet Mike.”

Brad looked up from the instrument’s strings, met Mike’s gaze, and gave a single, silent nod of hello before returning to his quiet composition.

“Come on,” Joe said, already pulling Mike away again. “Let’s see the house before everyone sits down.”

They pushed through the heavy main curtains, and Mike found himself on the stage itself, looking out at rows of empty, velvet-covered seats. The perspective was dizzying.

“This is where it happens,” Joe said, his voice softer now, filled with a real reverence. “This is the view.”

Mike’s little tour continued in a frazzling blur. Joe pulled him down into the house, where he was introduced to the lighting designer, a woman named Chloe who spoke in a rapid-fire stream of technical jargon about fresnels and gobos. He met the prop master, a jovial man named Henry who was meticulously arranging fake silver goblets on a cart. He was introduced to a dozen other actors and crew members—a bubbly woman named Kayla, a intense young man named Alex, a pair of twins named Jasmine and Liam—all of whom greeted him with the same open, welcoming warmth. Names and faces blended into a friendly, overwhelming haze. They all seemed to have a history, having done at least one, if not several, plays together. He was the only truly new person, the outsider, and their collective friendliness was as intense as the stage lights beginning to warm up.

Joe kept up the whirlwind tour, a force of nature dragging a very reluctant anchor. Mike was introduced to a pair of carpenters who were arguing passionately about the best way to construct a fake stone archway. He met a woman named Isabelle who was in charge of wigs, her own hair a spectacular shade of burgundy, who immediately started studying Mike’s hairline with a terrifying, professional intensity. The names and faces—Chloe, Henry, Kayla, Alex, the twins—continued to swirl in his head, a cacophony of personalities that left him feeling profoundly off-balance. He clutched the script, its weight feeling more and more suspicious with every passing minute. Why did a stagehand need a full, character-by-character script? Why was it so damn thick?

He clutched the script to his chest like a shield, the names Rob, Phoenix, and Brad the only ones solidifying in his whirling mind. This was so much more than he’d signed for. So many people. So much life, so much noise, so much everything.

Finally, Joe clapped his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the backstage din. "Alright, everyone! Can I have your attention? Gather 'round for a sec!"

The effect was instantaneous. The buzz of saws ceased. The arguments over fabric bolts halted. The vocal scales from the green room cut off. Every single person in the vicinity—carpenters, actors, lighting techs—stopped what they were doing and turned their focus to Joe. And by extension, to Mike, who was standing right beside him.

Mike froze. It was a full-body, systemic shutdown. Every muscle locked. He was a deer in the spotlight of at least three dozen pairs of curious, expectant eyes. The script in his hands felt suddenly like a block of solid lead. He could feel the blood beginning a slow, cold retreat from his face, draining down into his feet, leaving him lightheaded.

Joe beamed, a picture of pure, unadulterated joy, as if he weren't standing next to a man undergoing a silent, internal meltdown. He slung a comradely arm around Mike's rigid shoulders.

"So! A quick, last-minute casting update!" Joe announced, his voice projecting to the far corners of the backstage area. "As some of you know, our previous Marquess de Lyon had a family emergency and had to drop out. A real bummer."

A wave of understanding murmurs rippled through the small crowd. Mike’s heart, which had been hammering, suddenly seemed to stop altogether. A cold, terrible dread began to crystallize in his gut.

"But!" Joe continued, his tone shifting to one of triumphant revelation. He gave Mike's shoulders a hearty squeeze. "Theatre gods, they provide! They have smiled upon us! So, without further ado, I am thrilled to introduce your new Marquess de Lyon… my incredibly talented, generous, and let's-be-honest-devastatingly-handsome-best-friend, Mike!"

For a split second, there was absolute silence. Mike’s world tilted on its axis. The dusty backstage air seemed to thin, the sounds around him becoming muffled and distant, as if he were hearing everything from the bottom of a deep well. The only thing in sharp, brutal focus was the weight of the script in his hands—his script, the Marquess’s script—and the utterly shameless, unrepentant grin on Joe’s face.

Then the room erupted.

Applause burst forth, warm and welcoming, accompanied by cheerful whoops and calls of "Welcome, Mike!" and "Yeah! Saved!" It was a wave of sound that crashed over him, suffocating and horrifying. His gaze, wide and unblinking, snapped to Joe. It was a look of pure, undiluted betrayal, a silent scream of you promised, you liar, you sold me out.

Joe, meeting his horrified stare, didn't even have the decency to look chastised. He just gave a slow, deliberate, shameless wink.

And just like that, a dozen confusing pieces from the last twenty minutes snapped into a devastatingly clear picture. Joe calling him Marquess before they even stepped a foot into the theatre. The full, highlighted script. Rob’s comment about "the flow of the scenes." Isabelle the wig mistress studying his head. Joe’s vague hand-waving about where he’d be spending his time. It had all been a setup. A meticulously planned, beautifully executed ambush.

"Alright, settle, settle!" Joe said, laughing as he released Mike, who stood rooted to the spot, his limbs having turned to stone. "I know, I know, it's a whirlwind! But this is great! We're back on track, people! The show is saved! We'll take five, and then we'll all gather in the house for our first read-through. I want to hear these words come to life!"

He clapped his hands again, and the crowd dispersed, the chaotic energy returning, now tinged with a new, excited buzz about the last-minute casting miracle. People smiled at Mike as they passed, offering thumbs-ups and words of encouragement that he didn't hear.

Mike remained frozen, the leaden script hanging from his numb fingers. He stared at the dusty floorboards, waiting for the tremor to start in his legs, for his knees to finally acknowledge the catastrophic betrayal and give way. He was surprised they didn't. He felt a strange, dissociative calm, the quiet eye of his own personal hurricane. The betrayal was so complete, so audacious, that it almost transcended anger and landed in a state of sheer, awe-struck horror.

He was the Marquess. He had lines. He had to be on stage. In front of people.

Joe had taken his quiet, orderly life and, with a single sentence, set it on fire in front of a cheering audience.

Before Mike could even form a single, furious word of protest, before he could lunge at Joe and throttle him with his own script, a voice cut through the muffled panic still ringing in his ears. It was a warm, melodic baritone, laced with a teasing, effortless confidence that seemed to physically part the chaotic air around them.

"So, the elusive Marquess finally appears."

Mike’s head snapped up, pulled by the magnetic draw of that voice. And there he was. Leaning against a nearby stack of flat-packed scenery, arms crossed over a tight black t-shirt, was a man who wasn't just handsome; he was a live wire of vibrant energy. He looked to be a year or two older than Mike, and where Mike felt carved from marble and anxiety, this man seemed forged from warmth and motion. His hair was a rich, dark brown, cropped so short it was just beginning to curl softly against his scalp. Silver gauges stretched his earlobes, catching the backstage work lights. But it was his eyes that held Mike captive—a deep, warm brown, and they held a playful, challenging glint, as if he were already in on a wonderful secret Mike had yet to discover. A slight, knowing smirk played on his lips. And on his wrists, emerging from the sleeves of his shirt, were the beginnings of intricate flame tattoos, as if a fire were constantly trying to escape from within him. He was already completely, unshakably at home in this beautiful chaos.

He pushed off the scenery and took a few easy steps forward, closing the distance between them. The movement was fluid, natural.

"I'm Chester," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate level, for Mike’s ears only. He leaned in slightly, his gaze intense and focused. "I'll be the dashing rogue trying to steal your heart." He gave a small, theatrical sigh that was entirely too genuine to be entirely a joke. "Looks like we're stuck with each other."

A violent, frantic flutter erupted in Mike’s stomach, a swarm of butterflies going mad. His skin prickled with a heat that had nothing to do with the stage lights. It was a visceral, immediate reaction, a jolt of pure, undiluted attraction that was so powerful it short-circuited the panic for a single, terrifying second. He’d never felt anything like it, not from a mere look, not from an introduction. It was terrifying.

Must be the chicken, his brain supplied, a desperate, flailing attempt to regain control. And the residual shock from being publicly backstabbed. It’s just a stress reaction. A physiological anomaly.

Feeling more cornered and exposed than he ever had in his life—first by Joe’s betrayal, and now by this man’s disarming presence—Mike did what he did best. He retreated. He slammed the internal shutters closed. His face, which had been a canvas of stunned betrayal, smoothed into a mask of neutral, professional composure. The walls around his heart, thick and fortified by years of practiced solitude, slammed up with an almost audible thud.

He gave a tight, minimal nod, a gesture so small it was barely perceptible, and deliberately broke the intense eye contact, looking back down at the script in his hands as if it were the most fascinating document ever written.

"Mike," he muttered, the single syllable clipped and final.

As he stood there, pretending to study lines he already dreaded, a small, cynical part of him acknowledged that this exact reflex—this instantaneous, defensive withdrawal—was the unadmitted reason his love life was, and almost always had been, completely nonexistent. It was a dismissal. A retreat. A classic Mike Shinoda maneuver, honed over a lifetime of avoiding anything that felt too real, too messy, or too potentially devastating.