The stage went dark except for two spotlights—one icy blue, one silver-white—illuminating thrones at opposite ends. Between them, the LED screens showed crumbling marble columns and shattered crowns.
Haejun sat on the left throne, silver chains draped across his black suit. Ren occupied the right in a white jacket with crimson detailing. Neither moved. The audience seemed to be waiting for one of them to blink.
From the green-room monitor, I could see fine cracks spreading across the projected thrones. After the spectacle of Fault Lines and the tension of Red Ink, the stillness was unexpectedly effective.
A heartbeat pulsed through the speakers.
Haejun whispered, "You want the throne?"
Ren tilted his head. "Only if you're sitting on it."
Their voices layered together.
"Crownless."
The beat dropped. Haejun rose, descending the steps with measured movements as metallic percussion clashed against distorted synths.
"Velvet on the floor, hear the silence crack,
