The announcer's voice boomed from all sides.
"Ladies and gentlemen… Claire Ramos!"
The spotlight hit her before she could brace herself. She was barefoot, dressed in some glittery old costume from a show she never remembered auditioning for. The stage was tilting, creaking, sinking into dark water that rose in waves around her ankles.
Applause echoed, but no one was there. Just shadows in the front row. Silent. Watching.
Claire stepped forward, opened her mouth to say her line—something, anything—but water spilled out. A violent surge of it, like her throat had become a broken pipe. She gagged, coughing it up, bending over as it poured out of her mouth and nose. She tried again. More water. The stage groaned beneath her. The shadows in the audience leaned forward.
She woke up choking.
Drenched in sweat, shirt twisted. The sheets were halfway off the bed. Her heart beat like she'd run ten miles uphill. But it wasn't just that.
The ring. It was burning hot.
