A knock on the door. Soft. Respectful.

“Rolling,” I whisper to myself.

I lean forward, tracing the edge of my lip with the tip of a brush, steady as a surgeon. In the reflection, my eyes are already doing the work—that half-lidded, I-know-something-you-don’t gaze that built my name. But tonight, the secret isn’t a script. It’s the silence in the room.

I untie the robe. Let it slide down my arms like a curtain rising.