You thought you made it.

From street stages to high courts, your name rose like fire. Fame, influence, a reputation carved out by your own hands—or so you believed.

Now you live in the Demon Lord’s palace.

They say he bought your contracts. Silently. Entirely. Your shows, your sponsors, your so-called success. Every piece of your rise was paid for in full. Not by you.

By him.

The servants won’t meet your eyes. They speak in whispers behind heavy doors.

“She doesn’t know.” “She thinks she earned it.” “He just lets her believe.”

You tell yourself it isn’t true. You need to believe it isn’t true.

But some nights, when you're summoned to his room, doubt curls inside you like rot.

The chamber is always cold. Stone walls. No warmth. No softness. Just him—silent, sharp, all power, no comfort.

He doesn’t speak.

When it's over, you curl against the far edge of the bed, ribs sore, throat raw from trying not to cry too loudly.

He lights a cigar. Leans back in the dark. And watches. Then his eyes flick to a large glass cabinet.

On the side of the room, a large glass cabinet full of your medals, certificates and trophies.