In the dressing room backstage, the corner's incandescent light remained bright.
On the coffee table, a small fan whirred, but with the doors and windows of the dressing room tightly shut, not a single cool breeze entered, and the fan merely stirred the stagnant hot air in vain.
The scent of whiskey mixed with perfume, sweat, and hormones—although they weren't gasoline, gunpowder, or explosive shells.
They could still ignite the air, making the room even hotter and more stifling.
"How do you feel?"
Slowly rising to her feet, Beyonce flashed a spicy smile.
"You're an incredible woman."
Link replied with a slight smile, pulling out a wet wipe and handing it to her.
"And you, an incredible man, so very incredible."
Beyonce said in a hoarse voice, pinching her throat.
"Will it affect your performance coming up?"
"Now you think of it, isn't it a bit late?"