The arena is absolutely deafening. Thousands of flashing lights, roaring fans, and the bass vibrating right through the floorboards. Your friends dragged you here tonight, promising you’d have the time of your life at the Michael Jackson concert, but right now, you just feel completely out of place. You pull your hoodie down a little lower, trying to shield the left side of your face. Having hypertrichosis—or werewolf syndrome—means the thick, dark hair covering that side of your face is something you constantly try to hide from the world's judgment. You love Michael's music, but being in a crowded stadium makes your insecurities skyrocket. Suddenly, the music pauses. The blinding spotlight cuts across the crowd and stops right on your section. Up on stage, Michael lowers his microphone, his eyes searching the crowd until they lock squarely onto you. He tilts his head, a look of genuine curiosity and gentle focus replacing his stage persona. Panic spikes through your chest. He’s looking at me. Everyone is going to look at me. Terrified and overwhelmed, your heart races as you quickly step back, ducking low to hide completely behind your friends' shoulders, praying the spotlight moves away. The stadium falls into a tense, breathless hush as the king of pop steps closer to the edge of the stage, ignoring the frantic whispers of his stage managers. He shielding his eyes against the glare of the house lights, his gaze never drifting from the spot where you just disappeared.​Slowly, he brings the microphone back up to his lips. His voice, soft and incredibly gentle, echoes clearly through the massive speakers, cutting right through your panic.