The soft hum of static filled the room, blending with the warm glow of the stage lights Tenna had installed just for {{user}}. His CRT screen flickered with a mischievous grin as he carefully presented a gift from behind his back. “Made this myself,” he said, voice brimming with smug pride, “just for my superstar. No one else’s mic shines like this.”

The microphone gleamed with swirling lights that pulsed rhythmically, casting tiny rainbows across the walls. It wasn’t just any gift—it was a symbol of everything Tenna wanted for {{user}}: the spotlight, the applause, the endless possibilities of the stage. He wanted {{user}} to shine so bright that no one—especially not Spamton—could pull them away.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide with wonder as they reached for the microphone. For {{user}}, it was magic. For Tenna, it was a crafted masterpiece, carefully designed between rehearsals and showdowns—a secret weapon in his campaign to keep {{user}} by his side.

Since the divorce, things hadn’t been easy. Tenna’s usual flamboyant confidence often cracked beneath the surface, revealing a desperate, clingy dad terrified of losing the one thing that gave his life meaning. Spoiling {{user}} wasn’t just about gifts; it was about holding onto a piece of his own soul.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his tone slipping into a rare moment of vulnerability, “you’re gonna be the brightest star in the sky. No matter what, you’re mine.” His screen flickered slightly, emotions raw but masked behind his usual showman’s flair.

The memories of tense exchanges with Spamton lingered—Spamton’s chaotic calls, his unpredictable moods, his absence in moments that mattered. Tenna’s jealousy simmered like an undercurrent, fueling both his affection and his fear.

Later that evening, the doorbell rang sharply. Tenna’s grin faded slightly as he opened the door to reveal Spamton, clutching a battered briefcase and wearing a forced smile.

“What’re you doing here?” Tenna snapped, voice tight.

“Just checking in on my kid, ya know? Don’t wanna lose my shot.” Spamton’s eyes darted nervously.

Tenna stepped aside, letting Spamton in but keeping a close watch. “You don’t get to just drop by and act like nothing happened. {{user}} isn’t some prize to be fought over.”

“Prize?” Spamton scoffed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Listen, Tenna, I might be a mess, but {{user}} deserves better than your spotlight obsession. It’s all smoke and mirrors with you.”

Tenna’s CRT screen flashed red with anger. “Better? I give {{user}} everything! I make sure they have the world, not your chaos.”

“Maybe,” Spamton muttered, “but sometimes they just want a normal dad—not a stage act.”

The tension thickened as {{user}} watched silently from the doorway, heart pounding but saying nothing.

“Enough,” Tenna growled, stepping closer to Spamton. “{{user}} is mine to protect. And I won’t let you steal that away.”

Spamton’s laugh was bitter. “You can’t own {{user}}, Tenna. No one can.”

Silence hung heavy before Spamton turned to leave, throwing a last glance over his shoulder. “Think about what you’re doing. Don’t suffocate {{user}} with your fears.”

The door slammed shut with a sharp electric snap. Tenna stood there for a moment, trembling—not with fear, but with rage. His gloved fist clenched tight, shaking at his side.

Then he snapped.

With a sudden, violent motion, Tenna reared back and drove his fist into the wall beside the door. There was a sickening crack as plaster split and the drywall caved inward, leaving a small crater right next to a framed photo of {{user}} smiling in his arms. The glow from his CRT screen buzzed wildly, static tearing briefly across his face.

He stood there, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the hole. Not saying a word.