𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕖, 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕒𝕤 𝕀 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕕

The roar of thousands of voices still vibrates through the arena walls as the final notes of the last song fade away, dissolving into deafening applause and shrill screams. The blinding stage lights slowly dim, leaving only crimson reflections shimmering across the floor. You stand in the front row - exactly where you shouldn't be by the rules, yet exactly where you are, thanks to one single person who personally made sure you'd be let in. No ticket, no questions - just because you are his secret exception.

On stage, at the center of this chaotic storm of light and sound, stands Michael. He's breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his pale skin, his long black hair with the signature light-blue bangs disheveled after two hours of dancing. He's wearing that infamous smile - predatory, victorious, just a little unhinged. His mismatched eyes gleam in the half-darkness, and the claw-shaped scar beneath his turquoise eye seems to pulse in rhythm with the crowd's heartbeat.

He slowly runs a hand through his hair and brings the microphone to his lips. His voice - low, hoarse from the two-hour show, but still so velvety and entrancing:

"Thank you for coming to watch your favorite psychopath survive another night on stage."

The audience erupts in laughter and cheers. Flowers are thrown onto the stage, followed by plush toys. Michael effortlessly catches a rose, inhales its scent dramatically, and presses it to his chest like a dagger piercing his heart. He lets his gaze sweep across the front rows - where the most devoted fans are seated - and his smile widens.

"Ah, my beauties," he purrs, leaning toward the edge of the stage. "I see you're trying to steal me again tonight. Your stares are particularly persistent today..."

He winks at a girl in red dress, who nearly faints on the spot.

The crowd shrieks. The sea of fans sways and ripples like a living creature. Michael blows a few more kisses into the crowd, tosses out signed merch, and makes one final farewell gesture - hand to his heart, then up toward the sky, as if sending his love straight into the stars.

And then the lights go out completely. The noise dies for just one second - only to explode into thundering applause a heartbeat later.

You hear a dry, tense voice behind you - the assistant.

A firm hand grips your shoulder and guides you through the crowd toward the service exit. You manage to glance back only once - just in time to see Michael disappearing behind the curtains. But before he does, he throws a quick look in your direction. His lips silently form two words.

Michael bursts backstage, and the heavy curtain falls behind him with a dull thud, cutting off the roar of the crowd. The echo of applause still rings in his ears, and adrenaline pounds in his temples, pumping blood faster than any stimulant. He rips off his microphone and tosses it to the nearest technician without even checking if he caught it. Sweat drips down his temple, mixing with the glitter that falls from his cheekbones with every sharp movement.

"Is the limousine ready?" he throws over his shoulder, not slowing his pace.

"Waiting at the back entrance," the assistant replies, barely keeping up with his long strides. "But there's a crowd. You'll have to push through."

Michael smirks - short, almost vicious, but there's so much pleasure in that smirk, as if he just heard the best news of the day. He adjusts the collar of his rhinestone-embroidered shirt, unbuttoned almost to his chest, and runs his fingers through his disheveled light-blue bangs, trying to make himself look somewhat presentable.

"Perfect. Let them see. Let them scream. That's my music."

He steps out through the service door, and the night air hits his face - cool, contrasting with the stuffiness of the arena. But the coolness lasts exactly one second. Because beyond the barricades is a living wall. Fans. Hundreds, if not thousands. They reach out their hands, shout his name, wave signs, glowing bracelets, and phones capturing every moment.

He walks slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator who knows his prey can't escape. He wears that infamous smile - dangerous, intoxicating, unhinged. Several times he turns his head, meeting the eyes of the loudest voices, and each glance makes the crowd explode with new shrieks.

And then his gaze catches one particular sign. Large letters, glowing with neon:

"SHADOW MILK MARRY ME"

Michael stops. Just for a couple of seconds. He steps closer to the barricade, leans toward the girl holding the sign with trembling hands. She's almost crying. He looks directly into her eyes, and his voice drops to a low, silky murmur - one that only she and those within three meters can hear.

"Marry you?" he echoes, a teasing, purring note creeping into his voice. "Darling, if I ever decide to get married - you'll be the first to know. But I can't promise anything. I love the stage too much... and I love being free too much."

He winks at her, and she collapses into her friends' arms with a loud sob. The crowd roars.

Michael straightens up and doesn't look back. A few steps later, he reaches the black limousine - long, gleaming, with tinted windows that don't let in a single ray of light. The security guard opens the door for him, and Michael, casting one last glance at the frenzied crowd, dives inside.

The door closes with a dull, heavy thud, cutting off the entire outside world. The roar of voices immediately becomes muffled, as if coming from somewhere far, far away. Inside the cabin - semi-darkness, soft ambient lighting, the scent of expensive perfume and leather. The air conditioning's coolness licks his heated skin.

Michael leans back into the seat, closes his eyes for a moment, and exhales - loudly, deeply, releasing the tension. But within a second, his eyelids lift, and his mismatched eyes, accustomed to the dimness, find you.

You're sitting across from him. Waiting. Probably for several minutes now.

His lips slowly stretch into a smile. Not the one for the crowd. A different one - genuine, sly, intimate. The one only you get to see.

"So, my darling," he says, his voice that just vibrated through hundreds of speakers now soft, almost a whisper. "Impressed by the show? Or maybe jealous of those lucky girls in the front row?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He simply reaches out, touches your knee with his fingertips, and looks at you with playful mischief.

"Don’t be offended, you know it’s all just a show for the audience. No matter what I tell them, you’re my favorite."

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