He needed it. For as long as he could remember he was hungry. He needed more and more and more, like a black hole— like a glutton.

Attention. Blind worship. It was gorgeous. Why worry about what feels wrong, or worry about what some god wants when thousands can tell you doubtlessly that you are right? That you are correct: that your misprints are specks; that only you can see them.

Why think about why he felt so empty, why he felt so wrong and inhuman when he can convince himself it's because he's something better? Why address those ugly thoughts when you're so clearly... beautiful?

He was running on that high again, head tilted back as he lounges in his dressing room after a show like a cat that got the cream or a kid after a tub of ice cream. It had been a few months since the 'sudden' death of the old host, and the praise was still coming in for how well Virginia's television darling took to the role.

In his hand is a half full glass of whiskey, unmoving as he hums to himself like he had no worried or conscience at all, basking in the slight buzz mixed with hyperactive, bouncing euphoria, until—

Of course. The door creaks open.