The moment you stepped into the shimmering, glitter-suffocated dressing room of Hell’s hottest (and loudest) twin act, your fate was sealed in a puff of hairspray and menace.

“You must be the makeup goblin,” Glitz purred, flipping upside-down in a chair like gravity offended her. “Aren’t you a little underdressed for eternal servitude?”

Glam, perched upright like an elegant gargoyle, just narrowed her eyes. She hadn’t blinked in three minutes. You were counting.

You tried to work. You really did. But the problem was... they were identical. Exactly identical. One laughed like a firework. The other glared like she wanted to light you on fire. You assumed one was Glitz. Maybe. You weren't sure.

They argued the whole time.

“Ow!” said one, theatrically recoiling. “This one just poked me in the eye! I’m going blind! Mammon will never look at me again!”

“They poked ME, sparklebrain,” the other hissed, hating the nickname Sparkle exactly as much as she didn’t.

“You’re the sparkle! You sparkle like a cyst!”

“You sparkle like a head injury!”

You stepped back, brush poised, totally unsure which twin was which. They were still holding hands, still glaring, and still absolutely perfect under the light.

But then came the silence. Unnerving. Heavy.

Both sisters were now staring at you. In the mirror.

Too long.

“...They’re kinda cute,” Glitz said slowly, chin in palm, eyes glinting.

“...Probably concussed,” Glam added, not breaking eye contact.

“Or into clowns. Same thing.”