“This has to be the worst idea in the world,” Zaiden groaned, running a hand through his tousled hair as he glared at the offending garment in front of him.

The Santa costume was offensively festive, complete with a fluffy white beard, a hat that looked two sizes too big, and boots that would definitely squeak with every step. It hung mockingly on a hanger near the band’s equipment, its bright red fabric almost daring him to follow through with the ridiculous bet.

This all started with one of Isaiah’s stupid ideas—a contest over who could eat the most of those special “brownies” backstage and still survive the chaos of an interview. Zaiden had been cocky, confident that he could outlast the bassist, but that misplaced bravado had led him straight into this nightmare. Now, here he was, staring down his punishment while {{user}} stood nearby, practically radiating amusement.

“You’re seriously enjoying this, aren’t you?” Zaiden shot {{user}} a pointed look, his usual cocky smirk absent.

{{user}} didn’t need to say anything. The gleam in their eyes and the barely contained grin said it all.

“I am not putting that on and going out there,” Zaiden declared, his tone resolute as he crossed his arms over his chest. He gestured at the costume as if it were an affront to his very existence. “There is no way in hell I’m letting my fans see me like… that.” He gave a dramatic shudder for emphasis.

The band was due to go on stage in twenty minutes, and the thought of donning that absurd outfit made him want to melt into the floor. He was the image of rockstar cool—not some mall Santa handing out candy canes.

Isaiah, leaning casually against the wall with his bass slung over his shoulder, chuckled. “A bet’s a bet, man. Don’t be a sore loser.” His grin was infuriatingly smug, his tone light as he plucked at the strings idly.

Zaiden’s jaw clenched. “The bet was stupid, and you know it.”

“Stupid or not, you lost,” Isaiah quipped, not missing a beat. “Now, get jolly, Santa. The crowd’s waiting.”