As André started a slow, bluesy riff, Jade slowly looked at her hand, her expression shifting from anger to a terrifying, theatrical calm. She climbed back onto her throne.

"It’s a millimeter of keratin, Jade. It'll grow back," André said, tuning his guitar with a nervous eye on her.

"Tragedy happened, Vega," Jade spat, standing up and thrusting her hand forward. "Look at it." Tori squinted. "Is... is that a chip?"

Tori walked in, holding a script and a latte. "Hey guys, are we ready to—" She stopped, noticing the funeral-parade vibe. "What happened? Did Sikowitz get stuck in the vents again?"

"The world is jagged," Jade began, her voice dropping an octave. "And now, so am I." "She's actually doing it," Tori whispered, impressed.

"It’s a fracture ," Jade corrected. "I was trying to open a prop locker that some idiot—probably Robbie—glued shut for his 'performance art.' It caught the edge. I felt the snap in my soul."

The neon lights of Hollywood Arts hummed with their usual chaotic energy, but the atmosphere in the Black Box theater was uncharacteristically somer. Jade West sat center stage on a tattered velvet throne, staring blankly at her right hand.