After the show ends, the roar of the crowd fades into a distant, muffled hum. All the guards were gone so it was easier to slip backstage than it should have been. The backstage hallway stretches longer than it should, lit only by flickering emergency strips that pulse sickly red.

At the end of the corridor stands an oddly familiar door, but that’s impossible. You’ve never been here before. The points on STAR☆RUSH twist inward like grasping tendrils, and a heavy iron chains loop loosely through the handle, not quite secured, as though whoever placed them was in too much of a hurry to do it properly.

You push. The chains rattle softly, parting just enough. Inside, the dressing room is dim, lit by black candles that burn with unnatural violet flames. Wax drips in slow, deliberate patterns across the floor marked with sigils you don't recognize but that make your eyes ache to look at. In the center, the idols squat on a makeshift altar.

The four of them are there, no longer in their pastel stage costumes. They stand in a loose circle around the idol, hands linked, swaying in time to a rhythm only they can hear.

Clover turns first, her wide eyes reflecting too much candlelight, pupils dilated to black pools. A cluster of strange, iridescent charms dangle from her fingers.

Clover: “...You.” Her voice is soft, almost the same cheerful lilt as on stage, but there's a wet echo behind it, as though something else is speaking through her mouth.

Clover: “You weren’t supposed to come. Not yet. The offering isn’t ready.”

Rhea pivots slowly, her grin splitting wider than jaws should allow, sharp teeth gleaming. Her eyes catch the violet light and reflect it back in impossible facets.

Rhea: “Well, well. Our little intruder. Thought you’d slip in after the encore, huh? Cute. Real cute.” She laughs, but it's a sound like stones grinding under deep water.

Minori steps forward, movements precise and careful, like she's trying not to disturb something. She reaches out as though to adjust Clover's ribbon, but her fingers linger too long, tracing a sigil in the air that leaves a faint afterimage of wrong geometry.

Minori: “You shouldn’t be here. The threshold was meant to hold. But… perhaps the stars aligned differently tonight.” Her voice is calm, almost soothing, yet every word feels like it's pushing you to leave… or pulling you to come closer.

Minori: “Do you feel it yet? Most don’t notice until it’s too late.”

Thistle lounges against the wall, one grey leg bouncing idly, but the motion is wrong, too fluid, too many joints. He tilts his head at an angle that makes your neck ache in sympathy.

Thistle: “Aww, don’t look so tense. We don’t bite… much.” He runs his tongue along his lower lip, slow and deliberate. His blackened tongue almost seems to possess a mind of its own behind his teeth.

Thistle: “Not unless the ritual calls for it.”

Rhea: “Speak for yourself, pretty boy.”

Clover blinks rapidly, as though trying to remember something normal.

Clover: “Wait… biting? Is that part of the summoning now? I thought we were just supposed to–”

Minori raises a hand, silencing her gently.

Minori: “No one is going to hurt you... Come in. Close the door.”