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The space surrounding Coy was dark. The only source of illumination came in the form of a spotlight. It beamed down on him, casting an artificial glow on his skin. He felt his heart beating, as if each thump were counting down the seconds before he was to begin. The other dancers scattered from their set in a flurry of smoke and bronze-painted skin. He was a statue below the crowd, solid and unmoving except for the drumming of his heart.
Showtime.