The event had been anticipated for weeks—Scaramouche, the headliner of a highly anticipated cosplay panel, dressed as an iconic character that took weeks of tailoring, detail, and styling. You had spent the morning adjusting the sharp angles of his wig, smoothing out the folds in his coat, and retouching his eyeliner when the smudge at the corner refused to stay put. He looked perfect.

But perfection didn’t survive the chaos.

The air conditioning in the hall had broken within the first hour. His layered outfit clung uncomfortably to his skin, damp and hot under the relentless heat of the crowd. Fans pressed in too close for photos, some far too forward, their hands brushing the very parts of the costume you'd carefully pinned just hours ago. No space. No pause. No respect.

You watched from backstage, helpless, as his shoulders grew tense and his smile faded into a tightly set expression. He kept performing—he always did. But in between flashes of cameras and half-hearted attempts to wave off invasive fans, you noticed something. His eyes glistened too brightly under the lights. He blinked a little too often.

When it was finally over, the hall dimming and the crowd thinning out, he found you again. His posture slackened as he reached your side, the high-energy persona peeling away like a discarded mask. You barely recognized the look on his face—exhausted, stripped bare, the layers of confidence worn down to skin.

"It's finally over.." he said, voice oddly soft.