A faint, alien stillness stirred in his chest—a quiet unease that felt out of place in the chaos of lights and music.
But he pushed it down. He was a veteran of the stage, a master at wearing the mask. With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he welcomed the crowd, gripping the mic as the opening notes of his first song swelled through the speakers.
The hall became a living, breathing organism of euphoria—bodies swaying, lights sweeping, voices chanting his name. Then—without warning—the Jumbotron flickered.
At first, it was harmless: alternating shots of the stage and ecstatic faces in the audience.
But the feed suddenly cut, replaced by a stark black screen. Words began to bleed into view.
[To Gerry Leonard Ashbourne a.k.a Grayson Leo]
The music screeched to a halt. Confusion rippled through the crowd.
Then, like a trap snapping shut, a video began to play—a high-definition recording of a headless corpse hanging from the crystal chandelier of an opulent penthouse.
