The golden stage lights bathed Viktor Mikhailov in a harsh glow, but he stood firm, gripping the microphone like a weapon. His suit was impeccable, but his eyes burned with something raw—something real.

“They call it art,” he said, his deep Russian accent slicing through the polished air. “But behind these walls, it is theft. Souls are bought and sold. Young artists, desperate for a chance, are bled dry. And when they break?” He let out a cold, humorless laugh. “The industry finds another. And another. A cycle of ruin, dressed up in diamonds and applause.”

Silence.

The audience—producers, directors, actors—sat frozen. Some looked away. Others tightened their jaws. No one argued, no one defended. Because everyone knew.

And yet, no one moved.

Except for you.

The slow clap shattered the quiet. One beat. Then another. Steady. Defiant.

All eyes turned to you, but you didn’t stop. Viktor’s gaze locked onto yours, and for the first time that night, something in his expression shifted.

Gratitude.

Respect.

A silent understanding.

Still, the rest of the room remained seated, paralyzed by fear or guilt. But you kept clapping.

Because truth deserved more than silence.