Chapter 183: 183 Shadows of the Stage

Settings

Font Size

A

A

16px

Font Family

Background Color

183: Shadows of the Stage 183: Shadows of the Stage The morning sun sliced through VoltCore’s glass walls, casting sharp lines across Mishka’s desk, where the gala invite sat untouched, its gold Voss crest glinting like a dare.

Her arm, bandaged from the previous night’s chaos, throbbed faintly as she typed, sensor data scrolling across her screen.

The office buzzed with its usual rhythm—Tim’s off-key whistling, Carl’s grumbling about a jammed printer—but Elena’s escape lingered like a storm cloud, her cold command, “Burn her out,” echoing in Mishka’s mind.

Julian’s words—You’re unbreakable—clashed with the threat, stirring her Siren voice, a restless hum beneath her focus.

Milla’s text buzzed her phone: Miss Mishka, police found nothing in the woods.

Elena’s gone, but Bruce doubled the guards.

You okay?

Tea with Mrs.

Callahan tonight?

Mishka’s lips curved faintly, her fingers tapping a reply: I’m fine, Milla.

Tea sounds good.

Mrs.

Callahan’s invitation, sent days ago, felt like a lifeline to Eldergrove’s warmth, a small act of defiance against Jean’s family’s shadow.

At noon, Sarah burst into the break room, shoving a coffee into Mishka’s hand.

“Spill,” she demanded, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Julian Voss was here again, charming Angus, dropping off a handwritten note for you.

What’s the deal?

You singing at that gala or what?” She leaned closer, voice dropping.

“Also, Carl swears he saw a shady van parked near the office this morning—black, tinted windows, no plates.

Freaked him out.”

Mishka’s grip tightened on her mug, pulse spiking.

“A van?” she asked, keeping her voice steady despite the memory of flames and gunfire.

“Did he tell security?”

“Yeah, they’re checking cameras,” Sarah said, waving a hand.

“Probably nothing, but after last night?

Yikes.

Now, back to Julian.

That man’s got it bad for you.

His note mentioned a private rehearsal space, top-notch sound system, no pressure.

You have to consider it.”

Mishka shook her head, but her fingers brushed the gala invite in her pocket, its weight pulling at her.

“He’s pushy,” she said, a half-smile breaking through.

“But… maybe I’m thinking about it.” Her Siren instincts thrummed, the stage’s allure flickering brighter despite the danger.

Elena’s voice—End it now—warred with Julian’s warmth, a tug-of-war between fear and defiance.

After lunch, Mishka dove back into her sensor prototypes, the technical work a haven.

A glitchy sensor buzzed erratically, and she laughed, tweaking its wiring as Sarah teased, “You’re gonna make that thing sing before you do.” The normalcy grounded her, but her thoughts drifted to Eldergrove’s vibrant pulse—Lila’s cornhole challenges, Tom’s barbecue flips, Milla’s trivia nights.

Julian’s persistent faith wove through it all, his belief in her voice a spark she couldn’t ignore.

That evening, Mishka walked to Mrs.

Callahan’s cottage, the Eldergrove air crisp, fairy lights twinkling along the street.

The elderly woman greeted her with a warm hug, her silver hair glowing under the porchlight.

“Come in, dear,” Mrs.

Callahan said, her voice sharp but kind, ushering Mishka into a cozy living room filled with books, old playbills, and framed photos of her theater days.

A teapot steamed on the table, its floral scent mingling with lavender.

“You’ve had quite the week,” Mrs.

Callahan said, pouring tea, her blue eyes keen.

“I heard about the attack—awful business.

But you’re tougher than you look, Mishka.

Reminds me of my days in the theater, dodging critics and jealous rivals.” She chuckled, passing Mishka a cup.

“I was a stage actress, you know.

Nothing like your Siren voice, but I held my own.

Ever think of going back?”

Mishka sipped her tea, the warmth easing her raw nerves.

“I’m trying not to,” she admitted, her voice soft.

“The stage feels like another life.

Julian keeps pushing, though.

Says I belong there.”

Mrs.

Callahan’s eyes twinkled.

“He’s not wrong.

I saw you perform once, years ago—mesmerizing.

The stage can be a battlefield, but it’s also where you reclaim yourself.” She leaned forward, her tone conspiratorial.

“The Voss family?

Old money, big hearts.

Julian’s mother, Clara, was my friend.

She’d have loved you.

Sing for her at that gala, maybe.

One song.”

Mishka’s throat tightened, the idea of singing for a crowd both thrilling and terrifying.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, echoing her words to Julian, her Siren voice flickering brighter.

Mrs.

Callahan’s stories—of backstage rivalries, standing ovations, and quiet triumphs—stirred a longing Mishka hadn’t let herself feel in months.

The old woman pulled out a faded playbill from a 1960s musical, her name in bold.

“This was my last show,” she said, her smile wistful.

“I left when the spotlight got too heavy.

But you?

You’re built for it.”

As Mishka walked home, the night was quiet, but Bruce’s guards patrolled the estate’s perimeter, their radios crackling.

Duncan’s text lit up her phone: PI found Elena’s trail—spotted at a motel near Niagara, meeting a new crew.

Cops are closing in.

Stay sharp.

Mishka’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the knife now tucked in her jacket.

Elena’s obsession was a gathering storm, but Eldergrove’s glow—Mrs.

Callahan’s tea, Milla’s scripts, Julian’s faith—kept her steady.

The next morning at VoltCore, Angus called Mishka into his office, his gruff demeanor softened by concern.

“Security’s tightened,” he said, gesturing to new cameras outside.

“That van Sarah mentioned?

No plates, but it’s gone.

Bruce’s team swept the lot.

You’re safe here, kid, but Jean’s family doesn’t quit.” He slid a folder across his desk—schematics for a new sensor, one Mishka had pitched weeks ago.

“Focus on this.

It’s good work.

But Julian stopped by again, left this.” He handed her a small velvet box, a note tucked inside: For your voice, when you’re ready.

—Julian.

Inside was a delicate silver pendant, shaped like a musical note, its simplicity striking.

Mishka’s breath caught, her Siren heart humming.

“He’s relentless,” she muttered, but her smile betrayed her.

Angus chuckled.

“He’s a Voss.

They don’t give up.

Neither do you.

That gala’s a chance, Mishka.

Don’t let fear win.”

Back at her desk, she pinned the pendant to her jacket, its weight a quiet reminder.

The sensor schematics grounded her, their logic a shield, but Julian’s note—when you’re ready—stirred her resolve.

She texted him: Thanks for the pendant.

Gala’s still a maybe.

Don’t push.

His reply was instant: No pressure.

Just believe in you.

That afternoon, Mishka joined Sarah and Tim for a quick lunch in the cafeteria, their banter a welcome distraction.

Tim, ever the joker, mimicked Carl’s printer rants, earning a laugh.

“Seriously, Mishka,” he said, sobering.

“You’re okay after last night?

We’re all rooting for you—and not just for sensors.” Sarah nudged him, grinning.

“Yeah, we want front-row seats when you sing at that gala.”

Mishka rolled her eyes, but their support warmed her.

“You two are worse than Julian,” she teased, though the idea of singing—one song, maybe—felt less like a dream and more like a plan.

That night, Mishka stood in her room, the gala invite glowing under her lamp.

She hummed a soft note, her Siren voice vibrant, unbroken despite the chaos.

Downstairs, Milla scribbled script notes, her ambition a steady pulse.

Outside, Bruce’s guards stood watch, their presence a shield.

But Elena’s shadow lingered, her cold voice a threat uncaught.

A sharp rap at the door startled her.

Bruce’s voice called up: “Mishka, police found something—a burner phone in the woods, Elena’s prints.

She’s close.

Stay inside tonight.” Mishka’s heart raced, but her Siren voice surged, a defiant melody rising.

She grabbed the gala invite, her fingers tracing the Voss crest, and whispered, “One song.

I can do one song.”

She slipped downstairs, finding Milla in the kitchen, her script pages spread out, a pen twirling in her hand.

“Miss Mishka, you’re humming again,” Milla said, her eyes bright.

“That’s good, right?

Means you’re fighting back.” She hesitated, then added, “Bruce said the police are staking out that motel.

They’ll get Elena.

You should sing at the gala—show her you’re not scared.”

Mishka nodded, her resolve hardening.

“I’m thinking about it, Milla.

One song, maybe.” She glanced at the window, the estate’s lawn scarred but quiet, fairy lights flickering in the distance.

The memory of flames and gunfire lingered, but so did Eldergrove’s warmth—Lila’s laughter, Tom’s gruff support, Mrs.

Callahan’s stories, Julian’s unwavering faith.

The next day, Mishka arrived at VoltCore early, the pendant gleaming on her jacket.

A new email from Julian waited in her inbox: Rehearsal space is ready whenever you are.

One song, Mishka.

For you, not them.

She stared at the words, her Siren voice humming, a spark of defiance growing.

Elena might be out there, plotting, but Mishka wasn’t hiding anymore.

At lunch, Sarah dragged her to the office’s rooftop patio, the Toronto skyline sprawling below.

“Okay, real talk,” Sarah said, popping a grape into her mouth.

“You’re a badass, surviving attacks, fixing sensors like it’s nothing.

But that gala?

It’s your stage.

Sing, Mishka.

Not for Julian, not for us—for you.”

Mishka looked out at the city, the pendant cool against her chest.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not just of Elena.

Of the stage.

What if I’m not… me anymore?”

Sarah squeezed her hand.

“You’re still you.

Scars, Siren voice, all of it.

That stage?

It’s just a place to remind everyone—including you—who Mishka is.”

That evening, Mishka visited the rehearsal space Julian had mentioned, a sleek studio tucked in Eldergrove’s community center.

The sound system gleamed, the stage small but inviting.

She stepped to the microphone, her heart pounding, and hummed a single note.

Her Siren voice filled the room, rich and unbroken, echoing off the walls.

For a moment, the fear—Elena, the flames, the gunfire—faded, and it was just her and the music.

Julian slipped in, his green eyes soft in the dim light.

“Knew you’d come,” he said, his voice quiet.

“No pressure, Mishka.

Just… let it out.”

She nodded, her fingers brushing the pendant.

“One song,” she said, her voice steady.

“For me.”

The next few days blurred into a rhythm of work and cautious hope.

At VoltCore, Mishka fine-tuned her sensor project, its precision grounding her, while late-night rehearsals in the studio became a refuge.

Her Siren voice grew stronger, each note a defiance against the shadows chasing her.

Milla joined her once, clapping wildly as Mishka tested a ballad, her voice soaring.

“Miss Mishka, that’s the one!” Milla exclaimed, scribbling notes for her script.

“You’re gonna steal the gala!”

Bruce’s updates grew grimmer—Elena’s trail had gone cold after the motel, but the burner phone revealed coded texts, hinting at a larger plan.

“She’s not done,” Bruce warned, his face lined with worry.

“Cops are patrolling, but she’s slippery.

Stay vigilant.” Mishka nodded, her knife a constant weight in her jacket, her Siren voice a shield she was learning to wield again.

The gala loomed, now just days away.

Julian stopped by VoltCore with a tailored dress—deep blue, simple but elegant, delivered with a shy smile.

“Thought it might suit you,” he said, his usual confidence softened.

“No pressure, still.

But I’ll be there, front row.” Mishka’s cheeks warmed, the gesture stirring her Siren heart, but she only nodded, the dress joining the pendant as a tangible pull toward the stage.

On the eve of the gala, Mishka sat with Mrs.

Callahan again, the old woman’s tea soothing her nerves.

“You’re ready, dear,” Mrs.

Callahan said, her voice firm.

“Not just for the song, but for whatever comes next.

Jean’s family, Elena—they can’t take your light.” She pressed a small, worn journal into Mishka’s hands.

“My old stage notes.

Tricks for nerves, projection.

Use them.”

Mishka flipped through the journal, its pages filled with elegant handwriting and sketches of stage setups.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the weight of the gift grounding her.

She hugged Mrs.

Callahan, the old woman’s strength a quiet echo of her own.