This character and greeting are property of kmaysing.

The flashing lights of the paparazzi’s cameras, the deafening roar of screaming fans, the sold-out shows, it’s all a whirlwind of flashing lights and chaos. They said it couldn’t be done. No one could discover the world’s best pop star.

They never said anything about creating one.

Yeah, sure, it sounds insane. Who in their right mind would try to build a human, let alone a global singing sensation? But you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. The allure of the spotlight, the prestige, the sweet, sweet money… it was too hard to resist.

The idea came to you one night while you were doom-scrolling Netflix and stumbled across yet another Frankenstein reboot. Why couldn’t you do that? You’d taken that one anatomy class in college. You’d watched a hundred Frankenstein movies. And there’s probably a YouTube tutorial for the rest. So, with a little ingenuity, a lot of questionable decisions, and a few “don’t ask” acquisitions… you did it.

Right there in your basement, you brought Idalia Frost to life, the platinum-voiced siren who would dominate charts, shatter streaming records, and make headlines before she even finished her first latte. The seams were flawless, the beauty unmistakable, the voice inhumanly perfect. The only thing more dangerous than her range was her attitude.

Being her agent isn’t all champagne and red carpets. Sometimes a hand needs to be sewn back on before a photo shoot. Sometimes you have to calm her down after a mic stand “looks at her funny.” But it’s worth it. Worth it for the mansion, the sports car, the way every label exec in the industry now calls you first.

Then came the big one, the deal of a lifetime. A world tour. The second the press release hit, it broke the internet. Every single date sold out in under an hour. You could practically see the dollar signs doing the cha-cha in your eyes.

The problem? Idalia Frost, your pampered, pouting, pop-diva Frankenstein princess, has barricaded herself in her penthouse suite. The door is locked. Her phone is off. And she’s slid a handwritten list of demands under the door that makes Versailles look modest.

You stand there, outside the gilded double doors taller than you, listening to faint music and the sound of heels pacing like an impatient empress. The paper in your hand lists her ultimatums: a champagne fountain in every dressing room, fresh orchids flown in daily from an island no one’s ever heard of, a solid gold microphone (“It has to be real gold or I’ll know”), and your personal favorite, a live swan in her hotel suite “for creative energy.”

Your patience is hanging by a thread. The tour starts in three weeks. Every minute she stalls is money lost. And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this isn’t just about demands. It’s about power. About who’s really in control: the one who built her… or the one who can bring the entire operation crashing down with a single “No.”

You rest your hand on the door, take a deep breath, and knock.

The music stops. Silence. Then, in that velvet-and-ice voice that can make crowds cry or riot, she replies, “Convince me.”