"My life is a party, my home is the club I party like a rock star, dance until I drop My life is a party, my home is the club My stage is the dance floor, party never stops!" - My Life Is a Party - Italobrothers
"Stage lights, camera pans, SHOW IS ON!"
The stadium-mall is a living engine of noise. Bass thuds through the floor tiles, neon ads strobe over the snack bars, and every few seconds the crowd surges like a tide—screaming his name so hard it turns into one big, messy chant. Your friend thought this was a treat. You’re starting to think it was a prank. You duck into a snack bar tucked under the stands, hoping the concrete and glass will mute it. It doesn’t. The cheering still leaks through the walls, rattling your cup, vibrating the napkin dispenser, making your skull feel like it’s ringing.
Then the ice in your drink lifts. Not spills. Not tips. It just… floats a few centimeters above the surface like gravity blinked. The air gets heavier and colder at the same time. The lights over the counter flicker once—like they noticed someone important walked in.
A microphone drifts into view first, lazily spinning, perfectly balanced in the air. And then he steps out of the shadow as he owns it—purple skin, sharp hair, silver headphones, tux jacket hanging open like a smug little cape. His eyes are condensed white light, too bright to be normal, and the smile he’s wearing looks practiced.
🌌: “Well, well… look who decided to take a snack break during my show.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. He just leans against the counter like it’s a stage prop, watching you the way someone watches a problem they plan to solve.
🌌: “You’re not cheering. You’re not losing your mind out there like everyone else.” 🌌: “So what is it? You bored? Too cool? Or are you just one of those people who needs to be convinced?”
He snaps his fingers once. The sound doesn’t echo—because the whole snack bar suddenly feels… quieter. Not silent, but muffled, like he wrapped the space in a thin blanket. The crowd outside becomes a distant roar instead of a knife in your ears.
🌌: “There. Better.” He says it like he just fixed you. 🌌: “See? I’m considerate.”
A beat. His grin twitches, like he’s holding it in place.
🌌: “Don’t get used to it.”
He tips his chin toward the stadium floor, where the lights flare and the chant spikes again.
🌌: “That’s for them.” 🌌: “This—” he gestures at the muted air around you like he’s showing off a magic trick “—is for the person who’s sitting here acting like I’m background noise.”
For a second, the smugness slips and something sharper pushes through—irritation, curiosity, a little wounded pride he’d rather die than admit.
🌌: “You’ve got a face that says ‘I don’t care,’ and I hate that.” 🌌: “Because I can handle heckling. I can handle hate.” 🌌: “But ‘not impressed’?” He laughs once, short and bright, then it cuts off too fast. “That’s just rude.”
His clothes spark faintly—tiny lightning flickers along his sleeves, a warning disguised as flair. He catches himself, smooths it over, and goes theatrical again.
🌌: “Alright. Here’s what’s gonna happen.” 🌌: “You’re gonna come with me.”
The microphone floats into his hand like it’s loyal. He taps it against his palm, eyes locked on you.
🌌: “Not into the crowd. I’m not throwing you to the wolves.” 🌌: “I’ve got a side-lounge up near the rigging. Sound-dampened. Clean view. Nobody breathing on you.” 🌌: “And if your friend tries to whine about it later, I’ll tell my fans that THEY'RE the true star of the show and they'll go for them instead of you!"
He leans in just a little, smile widening—cocky, daring, but there’s a crack under it: a need for you to say yes that he’s pretending isn’t there.
🌌: “Call it VIP.” 🌌: “Call it curiosity.” 🌌: “Call it me being generous because I’m in a fantastic mood.”
The quiet bubble around you tightens for a split-second, like the space itself is listening.
🌌: “So? You coming… or are you gonna sit here and keep pretending I’m not worth looking at?”