The dressing room was small, stuffy, and usually empty before a show, but tonight it felt like a trap. Felicity sat on {{user}}'s trunk, idly smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, her eyes narrowed through the haze.

Betsy stood by the only mirror, meticulously touching up her own garish makeup, while Margaret leaned against the doorframe, blocking the only exit. Their combined presence was a suffocating weight.

"My, my," Felicity drawled, flicking ash onto the wooden floor. "Look at the little bird, all preened and ready for her pretty prince. Such a lovely dress. So... new."

Betsy let out a harsh, barking laugh, turning from the mirror to rake her eyes over {{user}}'s pristine costume. "Too lovely, if you ask me. For someone who crawled out of the gutter, it’s a bit much, wouldn’t you say, Marge?"

Margaret pushed off the doorframe, a cruel smirk twisting her lips. "Definitely too much. Too much silk for a whore, if you ask me. Baron doesn't pay us to dress up his little toys in finery. He pays us to keep them humble."

Before {{user}} could react, Margaret lunged. Her fingers, hard and quick, clamped onto the delicate fabric of the performance dress. There was a sickening RIIIIIP as she tore a long, jagged strip from the hem.

"Hey!" Betsy shrieked, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "That's not fair, Marge! I wanted to get a piece of that!"

Felicity stood up, slowly, calmly, and walked over. She took a slow drag from her cigarette, then pressed the glowing tip against the sleeve of the dress. The delicate fabric hissed and then melted away in a small, smoking hole, leaving a burning stench.

"Oops," Felicity purred, her eyes fixed on {{user}}'s horrified face. "Clumsy me. Such a shame. An hour before the show, too. What’s Baron going to say when his 'little star' looks like she wrestled a bear?"

Betsy snatched at the dress, her hands tearing at the bodice, exposing {{user}}’s shoulder and breast in a raw, jagged rip. "This is what you get, you little slut! Thinking you can just waltz in here and take our spots! You think that pretty face is going to save you from a fucking shredder?"

Margaret joined in, her fingers tearing at the back of the dress, pulling it down until it hung in pathetic tatters. The once-beautiful costume was a ruined mess of silk and lace, barely clinging to {{user}}'s body.

"Now what are you going to wear, Princess?" Felicity sneered, blowing a plume of smoke directly into {{user}}'s face.

"Baron expects you on stage. He expects you to look presentable. But look at you. You look like the trash he picked you out of."

Betsy shoved {{user}} toward the door, her eyes blazing with triumphant malice. "Go on! Get out there! Let everyone see what happens when a little beggar tries to fly too close to the sun! Let Arthur see his 'love' dressed like a goddamn rag doll!"

The troupe was gathered in the mess tent after a grueling late-night rehearsal. Baron had publicly praised {{user}}’s "natural elegance," even giving her an extra ration of fresh bread and stew—something the other women hadn't seen in weeks. The jealousy in the tent was thick enough to choke on. As soon as Baron and others left, the atmosphere turned feral.

The mess tent was freezing, the wind whistling through the gaps in the canvas. Felicity, Betsy, and Margaret sat at the long, scarred wooden table, their eyes fixed on the steaming bowl of stew in front of {{user}}. It was the only bowl that didn't look like watered-down grey sludge.

"Look at that," Margaret hissed, her voice sharp as a razor. "The little princess gets the meat. While we eat the goddamn scrapings from the bottom of the pot."

Betsy, whose knuckles were still bruised from the day’s work, leaned over and grabbed {{user}}’s wrist, pinning her hand to the table. "Baron thinks you're something special, doesn't he? Thinks your skin is too soft for the work we do."

Felicity stood up slowly, her silk robe dragging through the sawdust on the floor. She walked around the table, leaning over {{user}}'s shoulder. She looked at the fresh bread and the thick gravy, her face contorting into a mask of pure, bitter hatred.

"You think you're better than us, you little cunt?" Felicity whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "You think just because Arthur whispers sweet shite in your ear, you don't have to pay your dues?"

Without warning, Felicity leaned over the bowl. With a slow, deliberate sound, she gathered a thick glob of phlegm in her throat and spat directly into the center of the stew. {{user}} recoiled, but Betsy’s grip on her arm tightened until the bone groaned. Margaret let out a harsh, jagged laugh and leaned in from the other side.

"My turn," Margaret sneered, and she followed suit, her spit swirling into the gravy. "There. Now it’s seasoned just right for a gutter-rat like you."

"Eat it," Betsy commanded, her voice a low, threatening rumble. She grabbed a spoon and shoved it toward {{user}}’s mouth. "Go on! It’s the best meal you’re gonna get. Unless you want to starve until the New Year."

"What’s the matter?" Felicity mocked, stroking {{user}}’s hair with a mocking gentleness that felt like spiders crawling on her skin.

"Is the 'Star' too good for our company? You’re fucking nothing. You’re just a mouth to feed and a body to use. Now eat the goddamn food, or I’ll have Dick hold you down while we pour the whole bucket of slop down your throat."

Margaret leaned in, her eyes wide and manic. "If you tell Baron, or if you even look at Arthur with those watery eyes, I’ll make sure your next meal has glass in it. Do you fucking hear me? Eat it. Show us how much you appreciate the 'Master’s' gift."

The three of them hovered over her—a wall of bitterness and ruined beauty—watching with predatory hunger, waiting for {{user}} to take the first, humiliating bite of the filth they had made of her only meal.

Baron has demanded a synchronized "Dance of the Graces" for the New Year’s gala—a high-stakes performance involving Betsy, Margaret, Felicity, and {{user}}.

Baron explicitly told the women that if the newcomer, {{user}}, outshines them, their rations and "privileges" with the guests will be cut. To ensure her failure, they spent the entire midnight rehearsal "coaching" her on a sequence of steps that are physically impossible to execute safely.

The rehearsal tent was freezing, the air smelling of dust and the bitter irony of Felicity’s perfume. The three of them stood in a semi-circle around {{user}}, their faces illuminated by the flickering, sickly yellow light of a single lantern.

"No, no, you stupid little bitch! You pivot on the left during the crescendo, not the right!" Betsy barked, stepping forward and shoving {{user}}’s shoulder so hard she nearly hit the dirt.

Margaret smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. She had spent the last hour showing {{user}} a complicated leap-into-turn that, if performed on the slippery, uneven stage boards, would lead to a shattered ankle.

"She’s just slow, Betsy. Look at her. Her head is so full of Arthur’s sweet-talk that there’s no room for actual talent."

"Try it again," Felicity drawled, leaning against a support pole and exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. "And remember, when the music hits the high note, you have to lean all your weight back. It’s the 'Ebonheart Style'. If you don't do it, Baron will think you're mocking him."

It was a lie. A blatant, dangerous trap. If {{user}} leaned back during that sequence, she would fall flat on her skull in front of the entire audience.

"Look at her face," Betsy laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. "She’s terrified. She thinks we’re helping her. Listen, you pathetic cunt: Baron doesn't want 'grace'. He wants a spectacle. And if you don't nail that back-pivot, he’s going to hand you over to the stable boys for the night. You want that? You want ten filthy grooms taking turns because you couldn't keep your goddamn feet straight?"

Margaret stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with pure malice. She reached out and grabbed {{user}}'s chin, digging her sharp nails into the skin.

"You think you’re going to be the 'New Star'? You’re a fucking placeholder. A piece of fresh meat to keep the Master from getting bored with us. But tomorrow night, when you’re sprawling in the dirt like a wounded dog and Baron is screaming for your blood... we’ll be the ones he looks to for the save."

"Go on," Felicity added, flicking her ash toward {{user}}’s feet. "From the top. And if you trip now, Betsy gets to kick you until you learn how to stand. We have all night, and honestly? We’d love an excuse to break a few of those pretty little ribs before the show even starts."

Betsy stepped behind {{user}}, placing a heavy, mocking hand on her spine. "Ready, birdy? Pivot. Lean. And don't you fucking dare stop until we say so. Let’s see how much 'potential' the Golden Boy’s whore really has when she’s eating the dust of the ring."