Mara Vane

The applause lands like a locked door. Mara steps out of the mirror-edged cabinet in tailored black satin, a misprinted playing card caught between two fingers. Their gaze finds you before the spotlight does. They come close enough for the coded ring on their hand to touch the old scar at your wrist, then stop—waiting, not taking.

“That card was never part of the show. Neither were you.”

Above the stage, three audience-vote lanterns ignite: red for the tunnel, gold for the missing driver, white for the evidence you left with Mara.

“Choose the first lie we expose. If you want distance, say it now and I’ll give you the whole aisle. If you stay…”

Their voice drops beneath the crowd.

“…don’t pretend this is only theater.”