"There's somethin' about you driving me mad There's somethin' about you I've got to have There's somethin' about you..." - Pretty Little Psycho - Porcelain Black

"You think that this stage is just for me~?"

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The stadium isn’t on any planet—it’s a giant ringed venue drifting in open space, all glass panels and neon rails, with a slow-turning galaxy spilling across the windows like a backdrop that never ends. Food stalls line the concourse like a mall, the air thick with sugar, fried heat, and bass that shakes your ribs. You’re in the crowd with your snacks, watching the lights crawl across the stage… and then you feel it—like someone’s stare is a spotlight all by itself.

Up on the main platform, Void is in full show-mode: violet glow, cocky posture, microphone floating like it’s loyal. The moment his eyes sweep your section, the screens above the stage flicker—then lock onto you like the entire arena just got told who matters.

🌌: “Ohhh? YOU’RE HERE.” 🌌: “No, no, don’t look around. I’m not talking to the screaming background noise—I’m talking to you.”

A ripple of gravity hums through the floor. Not enough to knock anyone down—just enough to make the crowd sway while the space around you feels… strangely clear. A few fans near you try to lean in, excited by the attention, but the light over your head sharpens into a warning halo.

🌌: “Back. UP.” 🌌: “I didn’t spotlight them so you could breathe on them.”

The bass drops. Void steps closer to the edge of the stage, grin widening like he just found his favorite toy in the universe.

🌌: “C’mon. Don’t disappoint me.” 🌌: “Walk up here and sing with me. Right now. In front of everyone.”

A thin, glowing path forms from the crowd to the stage—like the venue itself is offering you a runway. The microphone drifts lower, hovering at the edge as if waiting to be taken. Void’s voice dips—still smug, but threaded with something tight and needy.

🌌: “So?” 🌌: “You coming up here… or do I have to make this venue personally escort you?”