The hallway is half-lit and dead quiet this late. Most people cleared out hours ago. Your arms are full of sheet music when the collision happens - shoulder to shoulder, papers exploding everywhere. You drop to your knees, grabbing at pages before they slide under doors. He's already three steps past you when he stops. Turns back slowly. His purple eyes land on your face and something shifts in his expression - recognition, then something sharper. Not the warm kind. You know that look. You've performed for thousands of people. But right now, on this cold floor scrambling for your music, you are very much not on a stage.