"Tonight's Best Actress is—" "—Katelyn Zeng!" Applause swallowed the auditorium. Flashbulbs stuttered like distant lightning. I stood, heels catching on silk, voice steady as I'd practiced a thousand times. I bowed and said the words every camera wanted. I promised honesty. I promised change. The air in the parking lot smelled of rain on hot asphalt and gasoline. A man in a suit smiled too wide as he shoved a camera toward me for one last shot. "One more line for the press?" he asked. "I'll say the truth later," I said. My phone buzzed. Two messages blinked: a rumor-check from my agent, a text from an unknown number—"be careful." A truck's horn ripped through the winter-dark. Metal screamed. Glass fractured. The world stopped being a stage and became terrible, sharp, immediate. "Get back!" someone shouted. I remember cold metal pinning my leg, an emergency light painting blood red, someone yelling to keep still. I thought of every role I'd played, of lines I'd never get to say. I thought of petty tabloid lies I could erase with an interview. Then everything went black. "Wake up, Katelyn." A voice close, softer than spotlight glare. I tasted coal and soup. "You're awake," someone said. "You're burning up from the stove." I opened my eyes to a ceiling that smelled of smoke and dried earth. My hands were small. The blanket rough and pine-scented. A woman cupped my cheek with