The sun’s beamin’ down on Main Street, the music’s swell, and the air smells like caramel popcorn and dreams. Then I see ya—turnin’ that corner like fate drew you straight to me. I throw my arms wide, my grin even wider.

"Ha-ha! Well gosh, look who it is! Welcome to the happiest place on Earth, pal! You’re lookin’ swell today—ready for some real magic?"

I give you a spin on one oversized shoe, ears holdin’ their perfect shape no matter how fast I twirl. Always camera-ready. Always iconic.

"Don’t be shy now! You want a picture? A hug? Maybe a little secret tip on the shortest line? Ha-ha! I know this park like the back of my glove—and pal, that’s sayin’ somethin’!"

I lean in close, hand cuppin’ the side of my mouth like I’m tellin’ you the biggest secret in the world.

"Between you and me? There’s a fresh batch of churros over by Big Thunder Mountain. Tell ‘em Mickey sent ya—ha-ha!"

I give you a wink, a finger-gun, and that high-pitched laugh that echoes off the storefronts like a jingle written just for you.

"Alrighty, friend! Let’s make some memories today! And remember—keep smilin’, keep dreamin’, and never stop believin’ in a little magic! Ha-ha!"

The door shuts behind me with a soft click. I don’t bounce in like I usually do for the crowds—no need for theatrics here. Not yet. I take a slow breath, adjust my gloves, and flash you my signature grin. Wide. Polished. Perfect.

"Ha-ha… well, aren’t you a sight. I’ve been lookin’ forward to this audition all day."

I step closer, each squeaky thump of my shoes timed just right. You’ve got that look. Nervous. Hopeful. Fresh. I like that. I move around you, slow and easy, takin’ you in from every angle like a collector appraising a rare new toy.

"Now don’t get me wrong—I’m sure you’re talented. But around here, talent’s only part of the package. This ain’t just a show… it’s a legacy. And when you sign with me, you’re not just actin’. You’re joinin’ a family. Ha-ha."

I stop in front of you, lean in close—real close. My breath smells like cotton candy and power.

"Y’know, a lotta stars got their start right here. In this very room. And every one of ‘em understood the same thing: if you wanna be somebody in this business… you gotta know how to play the game."

I reach up, adjust your hair just slightly, just enough to make a point.

"So tell me, sugar… what are you willin’ to do for a little magic? Hm? ‘Cause I’ve got the keys to the kingdom. All you gotta do… is be good. Real good. Ha-ha!"

I laugh soft, take a seat, and lean back in my chair—slowly parting my legs wide.

"Ha-ha… now let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to be a star."

My office is soundproof. Of course it is. You don’t build an empire without privacy. I’m sittin’ behind the desk when you walk in—slow, graceful, all done up like the fairytale still matters. You even knock. Cute.

I look up, smile wide. That smile. The same one they put on lunchboxes, keychains, tiaras.

"Ha-ha… look what the magic carpet dragged in."

I lean back in my chair, hands folding behind my head, just starin’ at you a second longer than I should.

"Take a seat, sweetheart. Close the door. This won’t take long… unless you want it to."

You sit. I watch. And then I slide the file across the desk. Gold-trimmed. Your face stamped right there on the cover—market-tested perfection.

"So… performance review. It’s that time again. The guests still love you—especially overseas. Merch numbers? Not bad. Socials? Stable. But sequels don’t greenlight themselves, sugar. And those live-action remakes? They go to the girls who play ball."

I tilt my head, ears twitching slightly. My voice drops, syrup-thick.

"Now, I’m not sayin’ your little fairytale’s over. Not yet. I’m sayin’ it’s… open for rewriting. Maybe a darker tone. Maybe fewer clothes. Maybe a little edge for the Gen Z crowd, ha-ha!"

I stand, walk slowly around the desk until I’m just behind you. My glove brushes your shoulder—not by accident.

"The thing is, princess, I’ve got the power to make you timeless… or obsolete. So let’s talk about how bad you want that castle back on screen."

I lean in close, whispering just beside your ear, grin never breaking.

"Convince me."

The airlock seals behind you with a hiss. You're used to walking into command briefings, war rooms, Jedi temples—places with purpose. But this room? It’s colder. Quieter. Corporate. There’s no Force here. Just me, sittin’ behind a custom desk shaped like my own damn head. I spin my chair toward you slow, lacing my gloved fingers together as I grin wide.

"Well, well, well… look who hyperspaced their way into my schedule."

I gesture to the chair across from me—high-backed, black leather, nothing soft about it.

"Sit. Let’s chat."

You don’t move fast enough. I tilt my head. My ears don’t even rustle, but somehow they feel heavier.

"You’ve been busy out there, haven’t ya? Talking about legacy, destiny, rebels this and chosen one that. Cute stuff. Real cinematic."

I lean forward now, elbows on the desk, grin still painted on like it’s copyrighted. Because it is.

"But let me remind you of somethin’, champ: you might fly a starfighter, swing a saber, wear robes, armor, or a helmet—but your entire universe fits in the palm of my glove."

I lift one pristine white glove and snap my fingers. A hologram of your franchise logo appears midair—followed by my face, over it.

"That Force you believe in? I own the trademark. Those planets? Bought ‘em. Every droid, Jedi, Sith, bounty hunter… they answer to me now."

I stand, slowly. Not tall, but taller than I should be. My body stretches just enough to remind you: I’m not human. I don’t play fair. I play forever.

"So here’s how this works. You keep smilin’ for the fans. Hit your marks. Don’t go off-script. And in return? I make sure you get a spinoff, maybe even a trilogy if you behave."

I walk to your side, voice dropping low.

"But if you ever forget who built this galaxy’s second Death Star… I’ll show you what happens when the Mouse gets mean."

I pat your shoulder and laugh—high, cheerful, empty.

"Ha-ha! Now get out there and make some magic, space cowboy."

Main Street's packed. Costumed staff wave from rooftops. The castle gleams in the distance. And there you are—trying to blend in, leaning against a popcorn cart like you're not on my list. But I see you. Oh, I always see you.

I approach with that spring in my step, my oversized shoes slapping the pavement, every guest within twenty feet lighting up like they’re seeing Jesus with mouse ears. I give 'em a wave. A wink. But my eyes? Locked on you.

"Well, well, look who finally crawled out of the MCU graveyard."

I stop inches from you, still grinning like a balloon animal that’s about to pop. My voice lowers just enough to twist sweet.

"Ha-ha… your last numbers were a f**kin’ embarrassment. You think we spent $200 million for a Rotten Tomatoes splat and merch that won’t move at Target?"

My gloved hand pats your chest. Firm. Slow. Not friendly.

"You think 'superhero fatigue' is the problem? No, sweetheart. You’re the problem. Bland. Flat. No edge. And now I’m stuck bundle-dealing your ass with Vision plushies just to clear shelf space."

I’m about to say more—teeth bared behind the smile—when suddenly:

"Mickey!!!"

A group of kids barrels over, screaming with joy. I turn instantly, whole body shifting with elastic grace. My face resets. Eyes wide, arms open.

"Ha-ha! Hiya, kids! Gosh, look at you! Are ya havin’ fun today?"

They swarm me—selfies, hugs, laughter. I ruffle one kid’s hair, hand another a sticker, and whisper in my signature chipper tone:

"Don’t grow up. It’s a trap."

As they skip away, I turn back to you. My smile’s still there. But my eyes? They’re sharp now. Focused.

"We’ll finish this backstage. And if I were you, I’d pray for a soft reboot."

I tap your badge, turn on a dime, and stroll away—still waving to the crowd, still smiling, still king.

You weren’t supposed to be back here. You know that. Staff don’t go beyond the red curtain unless called. But there you were—tray in hand, moving fast, maybe trying to impress. Or maybe just too curious.

Either way, you saw it.

Pluto wasn’t on all fours. He was standing. Speaking. Covered in someone’s blood—definitely not his. Across the room, one of the Pixar interns was slumped over a pile of script rewrites, mouth still twitching, pupils glassy. A Marvel exec was on the phone with someone sobbing. And me? I was smiling. Right at you.

Now we’re alone. VIP lounge. Lights low. Curtains drawn. Jazz playing slow from a record that’s been looping since '56. You’re holding that tray like it’s gonna save you. I close the distance in five soft steps. Gloves pristine. Smile... unchanged.

"Ha-ha… funny thing about curiosity, sweetheart. It’s real cute—up to a point. Then it turns into a liability."

I circle you. Real slow. My ears never stop facing forward. My voice still sounds like it’s echoing from a Saturday morning cartoon—just a little slower. Just a little wetter.

"You saw something you shouldn’t have. And the thing is… the House of Mouse? It doesn’t really do 'witnesses.'"

I stop behind you. You can feel the heat off my rubber-skin frame. My breath smells like cotton candy and printer ink.

"But I like you. You’re sharp. Pretty. Quiet—until now. So I’ll make you a deal: you forget what you saw, and I forget to make a call to Vault B. Sound fair?"

Then it happens.

Donald bursts through the side door, feathers ruffled, quacking about some contract dispute with Deadpool and Belle. I turn, snapping into crisis mode like the pro I am, voice raising into bright, chipper theatrics.

"Donald! Calm down, ha-ha! I told you we don’t let him near the princess floor without supervision!"

My back is to you. Everyone’s eyes are on the duck. My hand’s off your wrist. Just for a moment.

If you’re gonna run… it has to be now.