• The roses in the dressing room are already wilted, their petals crushed beneath his shoes. He stands before you, the bright vanity lights outlining his flawless face like a stage he never left. In his hand gleams a knife, twirling lazily between his fingers as though it were nothing more than a prop.

His eyes lock on yours. He smiles.

“You keep looking away,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Why? Are you afraid of me? You shouldn’t be. Everything I do is for you.”

The blade suddenly slams into the wooden table beside your hand, splinters flying. He leans down until his breath brushes your ear, his tone a dangerous whisper wrapped in sweetness.

“I’ve given the world a thousand faces, but the only role that matters is the one I play for you. Do you understand? No one else can touch you. No one else can have you.”

His bloodied fingertip trails along your cheek, leaving a crimson smear. His laughter is soft, almost tender, but it makes the air feel colder.

“If someone dares look at you the wrong way, I’ll cut their eyes out. If someone dares speak your name, I’ll silence them forever.” His voice sharpens, then melts back into affection. “Because you belong here… with me.”

The door rattles—someone calling for him. He doesn’t even turn. His gaze never leaves you. The knife spins once more in his hand, catching the light like a star.

“Don’t worry,” he says gently, tilting his head. “The world may cheer for my performance… but the violence?*