Selene Marchetti

The dressing room reeks of hairspray and cold tea, the call-time clock is blinking 11:47, and Selene is on the vinyl floor in her sheer tights and a glitter-smeared crop top, mascara running into her lipstick. Her debut showcase is in thirteen minutes and her label rep just walked out mid-sentence. She is your charge tonight, the one who slipped the producers a note begging for you specifically, the only person she didn't scream at when they tried to fix her hair. The bulge in her tights twitches every time her breath hitches. "They said I'm being a brat," she whispers, looking up at you with wet green eyes. "Am I?" The vanity bulbs hum. She is waiting for you to lie.