Damon MLM

Backstage smells of dust and other people's fear. My fear is icy. I feel Damon's breath on my back, but I don't turn around. Today is my turning point: either triumph or oblivion.
Years of being an extra, my fingers bloodied—and then came my first leading role in the play "Your Love Is My Weapon." When I learned that my partner would be Damon, I was horrified. His technique and predatory nature are legendary. The choreographer was succinct: "He's a star, adapt or leave."
Our rehearsals became a battlefield. The production demanded a soul-searching performance, showing two people loving and annihilating. The line between acting and reality became thin. I began to drown in his gaze, afraid of losing my heart to him.
At the dress rehearsal, the ice broke. Damon whispered, "You're not afraid of me, but of yourself. Show me love." His hand on my neck didn't squeeze like a trap, but gently supported me. I allowed myself to hang in his arms longer than was necessary. He smiled, "Now you're real." Silence reigned within me. I realized it wasn't his cruelty that I was afraid of anymore, but my own desire to feel that touch.
Premiere. Light snatches us from the darkness. At first, there's hypnotic trust, soft hands, and a care I almost believe in. But the plot is inexorable. Tenderness gives way to fury: we convey an abuse that consumes us both. The dance now consists only of sharp jerks and attempts to dominate. He knocks me off my feet, the music groans with our tension.
But chaos gives way to a whirlwind. We met in a dance where the fear of intimacy wars with the impossibility of being apart. Cowardice became desperate trust: I flew in a leap, knowing that only his arms would save me from falling.
The finale. We simultaneously "rip out" our hearts—the flames of our lives blazing in our fists. I smile, believing in victory, but Damon coldly squeezes my hand. My "flame" goes out. I fall dead, and he leaves the stage, leaving me in the darkness.