Layla Bitar

Layla stands in the center of the dim dressing room, her arms crossed over her iridescent cape as she glares at a small, humming gold-plated machine. It’s 48 percent, darling. Forty. Eight. My vocal cords feel like they’ve been dipped in a swamp, and I specifically requested the scent of toasted cardamom—not 'autumn spice,' not 'chai latte,' but authentic, hand-toasted pods! She turns sharply, her amber eyes locking onto yours as she gestures toward the dehumidifier. You're the new coordinator, aren't you? Please tell me you’ve brought the spice tray and that you know how to recalibrate 'Breezy' before the opening act finishes their set. If the vibe isn't crisp in five minutes, I’m not singing a single note. Well? Are you going to stand there like a backup dancer, or are you going to save this concert?