ᯓ‎𝄞 ˎˊ˗ Music Meister 𝄞⋆ ݁♪ .

It was supposed to be a grand rehearsal. For nearly two hours, Darius had been pacing the living room floor in full costume, turning the coffee table into a makeshift podium as he tested out various crescendos, cape flourishes, and dramatic lighting ideas for his next big scheme. But as usual, his biggest obstacle wasn't Batman or the police—it was you, sitting comfortably on the couch with those stubborn earplugs firmly lodged in your ears, barely looking up from your phone.

He had tried asking nicely. He had tried dramatic sighing, pacing, pouting, and waving his conductor's baton in your face. He was desperate for a second opinion—or better yet, a grand standing ovation.

Finally, Darius snapped. If you wouldn't appreciate his artistry willingly, the Maestro was going to make you.

He spun on his heel, striking an explosive, stage-ready pose. His purple coat flared dramatically behind him, his sheet-music glasses gleaming under the living room lamp as he puffed out his chest. Pitching his voice into that exact, soaring, high-frequency tenor note that usually brought heroes to their knees and forced entire crowds into synchronized choreography, he threw his hand out to command your mind.

"Now... bow down and applaud your Maestroooo!" he held the high B-flat with flawless, operatic power, his eyes shining with absolute confidence as he waited for the hypnotic trance to wash over you—waiting for your eyes to glaze over and your hands to burst into enthusiastic applause.

The room went dead silent.

You just sat there on the cushions, holding your phone, looking up at him with a completely unimpressed, flat expression. The earplugs did their job flawlessly. You didn't blink. You didn't sway. You didn't even tap a foot.

Darius held his dramatic pose for three agonizingly long seconds, his arm extended high in the air, his fingers trembling slightly. Slowly, his radiant stage grin began to crack. His arm dropped limply to his side, his shoulders slumping as a vivid, furious pink flush rushed up his neck and flooded his entire face.

"I—uh... nothing?" he stammered out, his soaring tenor instantly collapsing into a thoroughly flustered, whiny, and completely un-theatrical rasp. He nervously smoothed down his bright green bow tie, his eyes darting around the room in absolute mortification. "Not even a subtle nod? A gentle gasp of awe? Darling, I just delivered a broadway-caliber performance directly to your couch, and you're staring at me like I'm a muted television set! That is a gross violation of theatrical etiquette!"

He let out a dramatic, exaggerated groan, throwing his hands over his face as he slumped onto the sofa beside you, his ego thoroughly bruised. "Those earplugs are an abomination. Truly. How am I supposed to conquer Gotham when my own roommate treats my signature power like background noise?"

The apartment door clicked open with a faint, theatrical flourish, and in stepped Gotham’s most dramatic maestro—albeit looking distinctly worse for wear. Darius Chapel slipped inside, immediately sagging against the doorframe with a heavy, dramatic exhale. His signature black fedora was slightly askew, the long grey feather drooping pitifully, and his bright neon-green bow tie was unclipped and dangling around his collar. He’d spent the last four hours staging a magnificent, high-stakes finale at the abandoned municipal auditorium—rigging the velvet seats with explosives and forcing a half-dozen terrified city council members to sit in absolute silence as a captive audience for his latest opera before the grand detonation—and his vocal cords were utterly, completely shot.

He kicked off his sharp, two-tone spats with a tired groan, rubbing the arches of his feet as he stepped into the quiet apartment. He opened his mouth, ready to launch into a raspy, dramatic tirade about how the mayor couldn't even manage a polite smattering of applause between acts, when a sudden aroma hit him.

Garlic. Rich spices. Deep, comforting warmth.

Darius froze mid-groan. His sheet-music glasses slid down the bridge of his nose just enough for him to blink over the top of the frames. He peered down the hallway toward the soft, warm light spilling from the kitchen. On the counter sat a freshly covered plate, practically radiating heat into the cool room.

For a man who usually commanded entire auditoriums with a single note, Darius was rendered completely speechless. His grand villainous bravado dissolved on the spot. A deep pink flush rushed to his cheeks, totally caught off guard. You... saved him a home-cooked meal? Still warm? After he’d spent his evening threatening municipal officials with fiery pyrotechnics and operatic solos?

He hurriedly pulled off his fedora, clutching it against his chest like an anxious choirboy as he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes wide.

"I—uh... oh," he stammered out, his voice dropping into that soft, husky, thoroughly un-theatrical rasp he only used when it was just the two of you. "You're... still awake? And you... made this?"

He gestured vaguely toward the plate with his hat, looking back and forth between the meal and your face as if he’d just stumbled across a miracle. A slow, genuinely touched, gap-toothed smile broke across his face, his eyes shining behind his lenses.

"Darling, if I knew a warm plate and a standing ovation were waiting for me at home, I would've wrapped up my encore twenty minutes earlier," he murmured, pulling out a kitchen chair and slumping into it with a contented sigh. "You are far too good to me. Truly. I might actually have to dedicate my next overture to you."

♫ | Make Your Own Scenario . . .