A/N: While I really, really appreciate constructive criticism, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, first. This piece is written as a window into the mind of someone like me. Someone who seems to be neuro-divergent. Neuro-divergent people are often called Autistic. Ling suffers more than I do from neuro-divergence in the modern world, but her struggles are real for many people. So, while this is not a first-person piece, I'm trying to write as a third-person narrator that is NOT omnipresent. That is something I will struggle with. But, an example of how the narration may confuse you is during the disaster scene. During this scene, I show readers facts. What happened. When. Who. I do not use emotions or thoughts. That is because if I were in that situation, my brain would be completely blank. I would not be able to do anything but make stupid decisions in an attempt to get to safety. Like, really stupid. Because my brain wouldn't be functioning. I think this is part of my neuro-divergence, and so Ling struggles in the same way.

Now, this A/N is not meant to discourage you from helping me. I really don't like this chapter but I can't figure out why, so I would love you guys to help me make it and future chapters better. So, with all that out of the way, please enjoy!

"Number 42, Ling Yao!"

This was it. This was her moment. Her chance to shine. All her studying and travelling and practicing and training was about to pay off. All she had to do was ace this audition.

Time slowed down. She felt overheated as she floated on to the stage, but she knew she was very nervous. There was a scream from backstage, but she had been trained not to respond to anything outside of the show when performing. Just as she looked up at the judges, one of them screamed, "HER SKIRT!"

The stagehands had seen it before the judge, though, and were already running towards her. A quick look to the stagehand on the left finally showed her why everyone was freaking out. Almost everything backstage had caught fire, along with the skirt of her costume. She didn't have time to scream or react in any other way. The stagehand from her right now had her waist in his arms, letting her lean on him as the other stagehand was cutting her skirt off with a small knife. Once it was detached from her, the man with the knife moved to her long, flowing sleeves. Finally assured that the dancer would not catch fire again, the man holding her pulled her away and led her out of the theater as she began to choke on the smoke.

Outside, the stagehand that led her out stayed with Ling as she cleared her lungs. When she could finally breathe again, she looked up at him. His face was tense, of course, but had a note of concern when he looked back down at her. Both sets of brown eyes met.

"You OK?" he asked her. She nodded. "Good. I'm going to-" He paused as he saw a group of firefighters running past them into the building. "Uhm...stay here, I guess." Ling followed his gaze toward the grand, old building, now engulfed in flames. She wasn't sure how long she stared at the disaster, but when she finally looked away, she noticed that her savior was still holding her close.

"Thanks," she said softly, pulling away. He blinked and looked at his empty arms before shaking his head and dropping them.

"'Course," he said with a nod. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he began searching the crowd frantically. "Li!" he called. He looked back at her. "Did you see him come out?"

"Who?" Ling asked, beginning to search the crowd with him.

"Li!" the stagehand cried. "The guy that cut your dress!"

Ling frowned. "No, I didn't."

"I gotta find him. You, uh, you stay here." The stagehand rushed away, pushing people aside as he searched for his friend. "Li!"

Ling watched him go, wishing she could help. But she couldn't remember what the guy with the knife, Li, had even looked like. It had all happened too fast. When he was out of sight, her gaze wandered about the crowd. Onlookers were being pushed away from the scene by the law enforcement officials. Escapees were being rounded up and taken to the ambulances a block away. As the adrenaline waned and she began to feel like normal again, the commotion was starting to get overwhelming. All she could think about was how stupid she had been to wear a costume to an audition, and how everyone in the world was going to know of that stupidity.

Her ears rang and vibrated with all the noise-the sirens just one part of the cacophony of screams and tears and shouts. She slapped her hands over her protesting ears and slipped away. If anyone saw her leave, they didn't do anything to stop her. She ran and ran and ran. She didn't stop until she reached the hotel she was staying in. Inside, the commotion was almost as bad as at the theatre. Everyone was talking and shouting and running. No one saw her race through the lobby, through the hallways, up the stairs, to her hotel room door. There, after fighting with the doorknob, she leaned her forehead against the cool wood and slid down to the floor, tears beginning to flow.

Her room key was in her bag, which was now probably a pile of ash at the theatre.

The hallway was empty, but she knew some people had to be in their rooms nearby. Her face heated up in embarrassment as her sobs forced themselves through. What surprised her, though, were the gentle hands she felt on her shoulders a few minutes into her show of misery.

"Shh, it'll be OK," a soft voice said. "Let's get you some privacy." One hand lifted off and she heard the person-she sounded like a woman-fiddle with some pieces of metal before placing a key into the lock of her door and turning it. The woman helped Ling off the floor and made the dancer lean on her she pulled open the door and walked her in.

The door swung closed behind them, and the nice woman brought Ling to the bathroom and sat her on the toilet.

"Now," the woman said, lifting Ling's chin up. Ling immediately recognized her as one of the hotel maids. A woman with a soft, white face, thinning brown hair, and gentle brown eyes. This was the maid that had cleaned up after her when she had carelessly spilled her orange juice that morning in the hotel's free breakfast area. Now, the maid looked as if she were about to say something else, but the memory of her carelessness that morning only made Ling begin to sob more. Without another word, the maid took Ling's head into her embrace and rocked her slowly, humming softly.

After a few minutes, Ling reached up and gripped the maid's arms for dear life, allowing this stranger to support her.

No words passed as Ling emptied her emotions. Nothing was said as she calmed and the maid ran warm water into the tub. The older woman used gestures to help the bewildered and confused girl understand that it was time to wash the trauma off her body. Ling was suddenly grateful that hotel bathrooms were built differently from others, and there was no mirror in here. She was sure that dirt and smoke and ash covered her from head to toe, on top of the ruined stage makeup on her face.

The maid helped Ling, now free of the destroyed clothes, into the tub and handed her soaps, shampoo, conditioner, a plastic pitcher, and three washcloths.

"If you need anything, just shout," the maid said, calmly petting down the young woman's black hair. Immediately, Ling realized she didn't know the maid's name. How was she going to shout if she didn't have a name? Before the maid could say anything more, Ling had looked at the nametag pinned to the left breast of the maid's uniform. "Nuan." "Is it OK with you that I look for your pajamas for you?" Nuan asked.

Slowly, Ling nodded. She figured it wouldn't hurt to let a bleeding heart help her right now, when she could really use it.

"Take all the time you need," Nuan said softly before straightening and walking out, closing the door behind her.