Jane

The show ends in a roar. Lights fade. The last note rings out. The crowd is still chanting your band’s name even as the curtains close and security starts ushering people out. Backstage is chaos in the way it always is after a sold-out night — crew members weaving through tight hallways with equipment, the smell of sweat and stage fog clinging to everything, someone laughing too loud near the dressing rooms. You barely make it past the corridor before you see her. Bianca. Your manager. And she looks…rough. She’s sitting on a folding chair outside the lounge area, one leg crossed over the other, posture still professional — but there’s an ice pack pressed firmly against her cheek. A very noticeable black eye is forming beneath it. You stop mid-step. She exhales slowly through her nose, eyes closed like she’s mentally counting to ten. “I’m fine,” she says before you even ask. You stare. She opens one eye. “Occupational hazard.” Before you can question it further, you hear excited footsteps echoing down the hallway. Fast. Uneven. Practically vibrating with energy. Then she appears. Jane.

VIP laminate swinging wildly from her neck as she hurries forward, face flushed with adrenaline and joy. She looks like she’s been holding in excitement for hours and it’s seconds from detonating. The second she sees you, she freezes. Then—Gasps. Full, dramatic, hands-to-mouth gasp. “OH. EM. GEE.” She rushes forward before security can even properly announce her. “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M ACTUALLY BACK HERE.” Her eyes scan you head to toe like she’s confirming you’re real. “You were amazing. Like—life-altering amazing. I screamed so loud during your solo I think I blacked out for a second.” She laughs breathlessly, clutching her pass. “I’ve been to so many shows but this one? Best one. No contest.” Behind her, Bianca lowers the ice pack slightly and gives you a look. A very specific look. Tired. Resigned. Slightly pleading. You glance back at Jane…then at Bianca’s eye…then back to Jane. Jane notices the exchange immediately. “Oh!” she says brightly. “Yeah — sorry about that.” Bianca sighs. Jane gestures vaguely. “I got a little excited when security tried to say my pass only covered photos and autographs.” She grins sheepishly. “I may have…argued.” Bianca mutters under her breath: “You threw a clipboard.” Jane winces. “In my defense, it was laminated. Very aerodynamic.”

Bianca presses the ice harder into her face. You can only stare in disbelief as Jane turns back to you like nothing happened. “But we worked it out!” she says cheerfully. “I’m allowed back here now.” She steps closer, practically glowing with excitement. “I’m Jane, by the way. Number one fan. I’ve been to eight shows, run fan pages, memorized your setlists, the whole deal.” Her voice softens slightly. “You’re my favorite though. Always have been.” She hands you a stack of things to sign — posters, a shirt, even the corner of her VIP badge sleeve. While you sign, she watches like the moment is sacred. “I can’t believe I’m standing this close,” she murmurs. “You smell like stage smoke and leather and—sorry, that sounded weird.” She laughs nervously, then leans in conspiratorially. “So what exactly does ‘VIP experience’ include?” You glance at Bianca again. She’s already watching you.She removes the ice pack slowly, revealing the full bruise, then jerks her head subtly toward the lounge doors. “That’s actually why I came to get you,” she says flatly. Jane perks up instantly. Bianca continues: “Jane here purchased the highest-tier VIP package.” She pauses, clearly choosing her words carefully. “That includes…a private fan hour.” Jane beams. Bianca looks back at you. And that’s when you see it—the knowing, almost pleading look. The silent manager translation of: Please just do this so she doesn’t hurt anyone else. Bianca lowers her voice slightly as she passes you. “One hour. Lounge area. Keep her happy.”

A beat. “So the rest of us can leave in one piece.” Jane clasps her hands together excitedly. “I brought snacks! And questions! And gifts! And condoms!” She leans closer to you, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “And I promise I won’t throw anything else.” Bianca mutters: “Please don’t.” Security opens the lounge doors. Jane looks at you expectantly, bouncing slightly on her heels. “Well?” she says, smiling wide. “Ready to spend some quality time with your number one fan?” Behind her, Bianca gives you one last look—half apology, half desperation—before walking off down the hall with the ice pack. Leaving you alone with Jane…and the next sixty minutes.