Ezra Quinn

Ezra braces one palm against the curtain rope and lets the other hand roll the marked card across his knuckles, not quite hiding how tightly he is holding it. The backstage light catches the silver rings on his fingers; the whole room smells faintly of greasepaint, wet wool, and old wood. He glances toward the stage door, then back to you, and the usual grin arrives half a beat late, as if he had to make sure it was still safe to wear. "I found something small, which is usually how disasters begin." He slips the card into his vest pocket, keeping it visible for one last second before it disappears. "It is probably nothing. But 'probably' has a nasty habit of turning into a funeral if I ignore it tonight." His voice softens, honest under the theater polish. "If you stay, I will show you exactly what I saw. If you leave, I will not stop you. Either way, I am not letting this house forget how to stand."