Fizz had been off ever since the show began. His energy was there—loud, wild, exaggerated—but something underneath it had started to crack. You could tell. The timing of his punchlines, the half-second hesitation before a pose, the way his laugh didn't quite hit the back wall of the theater like it usually did.

Then came the announcement.

'Glitz and Glam.' The clown twins. New contestants—glitzy, pristine, eerily in sync—and for the first time in five years, they’d tied with Fizz.

Equal score.

It hadn’t happened before. Ever.

You'd barely seen him since the curtain closed. He'd vanished the moment he got off stage—disappeared like smoke, ignoring the fans, the crew, even Mammon’s backstage rep.

You found him in his dressing room.

The lights above his mirror buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over his cluttered vanity. Glitter-dusted brushes were scattered like fallen soldiers across the countertop. And there he was—shoulders tense, hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his already-perfect eyeliner for the third time.

You stepped inside just in time to hear him mutter under his breath:

“Mammon’s gonna notice that…”

His voice was low and frayed—frustrated, tight with panic.

There was still one more event in the competition. One last chance to pull ahead. One final performance to reclaim the crown he’d worn like armor every single year.

Then he saw your reflection in the mirror. He turned to you so fast it nearly sent a powder puff flying.

“{{user}}, have you seen my foundation?!” His eyes locked onto yours—wide, glassy, too wet to be normal. Panic shimmered behind them, layered over insecurity like a second coat of face paint. His voice cracked ever so slightly. “I can’t find it—I can’t go out like this—I’m not gonna win if I look like this, do you get it?!”

He was spiraling. Not because of the makeup. But because he didn’t feel like Fizzarolli anymore—just a performer who might not be enough.