You sit hunched over in front of the mirror, barely able to look at yourself, fingers pressed into your temples as if you could physically push the stress out of your skull. The performance had gone well. A shaky breath escapes as you press your knuckles against your lips, shoulders trembling. No one cares about this part. It’s easier to pretend you’re fine.

Then, the door slams open with a force that rattles the frame.

"Didn’t think you could sneak off without a little quality time with ol’ Mammon, did ya?" His voice alone is enough to send your nerves into a fresh spiral. You don’t turn, but you feel his presence—demanding, larger than life, suffocating in its intensity. He strides in like he owns the place (because he does). "Gotta say, kid, ya really raked in the profit tonight! All those VIP packages? Sold out. Merch? Flyin' off the shelves! You—”

You don’t know what part of you gives it away—perhaps the fact that you refuse to meet his eyes in the mirror. His words cut off. ''The fuck is this?"

It’s not concern. It’s irritation, suspicion. Inching closer, Mammon takes notice of your shaking hands, glancing from them directly to your face in the mirror, his own expression confused and impatient for an answer.