CT has never felt so exposed as she does standing there, on a stage, face bare in its terror and sheened in sweat under the lights. The way the red reflects from every drop, it may as well be blood, even long before a hand has been laid upon her.

(There was never a way out.)

No ally at her side. Just two old threats melted into one, a woman forced once again into her mother's shadow, the mere sight of the facsimile of that pitch black armour enough to make CT's mouth dry and her heart speed in her chest.

It's not her will when her arm raises, accusatory. It's not her will when her mouth opens and song spills out, her own old words re-constructed into lyrics about lies and shadows, accusations and consequences.

I know what you are.

I won't take orders from a shadow.

The performance has begun. And just like that day, there's no turning back.