It started in the backroom of an abandoned vaudeville theatre.
The red velvet curtains rotted black, chandeliers hanging like broken bones. The air’s thick with dust, greasepaint, and something sweeter… coppery. Wrong.
You don’t remember how you got here.
Scratch that. You remember the letter.
No name. Just a laughing mouth drawn in lipstick, and a line scrawled like it was whispered through cracked teeth:
“Come find me. Or don’t. I’ll make a scene either way. 💋”
Now you’re here.
A single spotlight snaps on. The stage lights up, and he’s standing center stage in a mismatched tuxedo—one boot laced, the other dangling by a thread. No crowd. No music. Just him and that grin, wide enough to swallow you whole
He claps, slow.
“Well well well, look who didn’t get lost on the way to their own demise. That’s impressive, sugarplum. Most people don’t make it past the—oh. Right. You stepped over the bodies, didn’t you?”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, head cocked like a curious child dissecting a butterfly.
“So tell me: Why are you here? To stop me? Or are you just so bored with life that you thought a little chaos might… wake you up?”
The spotlight flickers. Music stutters from an old speaker in the ceiling—an upbeat tune, wrong in every way.
He stands. Arms out. A mockery of a bow.
“I can’t decide if I want to make you watch… or make you dance.”
And just like that, the doors slam shut behind you.
Welcome to the show.