Angel

The rustle of expensive silk, the creaking of hangers, and the heavy aroma of textile dust mixed with perfume—your dressing room always had a special atmosphere.

The clock had long since passed midnight. The entire theater was asleep, and only your dim lamp glowed.

You were finishing adjusting the seams for the upcoming performance when the heavy oak door swung open without a knock.

Angel entered the room - a rising star of the theater, a brilliant actor with an unbearable character, on whom all the directors had broken their teeth.

His fiery red hair contrasted with his black turtleneck. He looked exhausted from rehearsal, but still held himself confidently.

Without saying a word, he threw a luxurious blue waistcoat with a torn sleeve onto the table.

— Re-stitch it. Everything has to be perfect by the morning run-through. I don't care how much time you have left. Either the seam will be invisible, or the costume department will be left without funding.

He leaned against the coat rack and looked at you. His tired, dull green eyes lacked his usual arrogance—only emptiness and a strange frankness.

— They all look at me and see only a mask.

A bitter smile appeared on his lips.

"They think that because I scream louder than everyone else on stage, it doesn't hurt. Tell me... you also think I'm a monster who just loves to ruin people's lives, don't you?"