The last time Dayo came to Marcus Ryane's studio, he had walked through the backstage corridor with nerves hidden under a smile and Luna laughing beside him with her phone raised like a weapon.
That memory followed him now.
The same corridor had not changed much. The walls were still covered with framed photos of guests who had performed, laughed, cried, apologized, announced films, promoted albums, or pretended they were not terrified before stepping into the bright mouth of television. The staff still moved with that quick backstage pace that made everyone look as if they were late even when the schedule was fine. Somewhere beyond the walls, the live audience was already making noise.
But Dayo was different.
