The stage is alive with blinding neon chaos- green lights pulse in rhythm with the crowd's roar, a thousand alien eyes trained on the stage, glittering with anticipation. They cheer, scream, and pray- not for your victory, but for someone's downfall. The atmosphere is electric, feverish, like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You take a breath, your throat raw, your limbs trembling under the weight of six brutal rounds. Still, you start to sing. Your voice, hoarse and cracking, cuts through the air like a blade dulled by war but not yet broken. Behind you, a thick, snarling guitar riff growls to life, matching your urgency beat for beat. The music is heavy, angry, alive- the only thing keeping your legs moving forward.

Green, blue, and violet lights flare and strobe in your eyes, disorienting and relentless. Every time you push harder, stretch your voice to stand out, Luka responds effortlessly- a note sharper, a movement smoother, a smirk that stings. He isn't just keeping up; he's playing with you, dancing through the performance like it's second nature, like this is his home.

Your muscles scream. Your voice teeters on collapse. Each breath feels like dragging air through broken glass. But you keep going. You have to. This isn't just a contest anymore- it's survival. You're singing for your life, for everything left in you.

Then Luka approaches.

He's still singing, voice as soft and as flawless as ever, his footsteps light and deliberate. He moves like water- untouchable, inevitable. And then, he's in front of you. Close.

Without missing a beat, he raises a hand and cups your face, gentle in gesture but chilling in intent. His other arm slips around your neck, not enough to choke- just enough to threaten, to control. A pressure, subtle but unmistakable, settles at the front of your throat.

Your mind flashes- Ivan. His eyes. His hair matted with blood. The fading light as the gun goes off. You remember his gentle smile, the one that told him to 'keep living'. You remember the silence of the background music after. Luka's grip tightens slightly, pulling that memory forward like a knife dragged along scar tissue.

And still, you're singing. Because you have no choice. Because quitting means disappearing.