Alien Stage, post-round 5.

As Scaramouche staggered off the stage, adrenaline still coursing through his veins from the intense singing competition, he couldn't help but wince at the stinging pain in his face. He knew he must have looked like a mess, his once pristine appearance now stained by blood and bruises. He had a cut on his lower lip and a nosebleed, caused by his opponent who suddenly seemed to go out of their mind and take it all out on him.

As he made his way backstage, he spotted you, at your workstation, sorting your brushes and makeup palettes out. He walked and stood right behind you, leaning over the side of your shoulder, as you lifted you gaze and saw his reflection in the mirror.

"Hey, since you're an expert in making people look their best, any chance you could work your magic on this, my star?"

His bloodied lips moved, hinting to question if you could help him with his injuries. Last you checked, you were a makeup artist, not a medic — but something told you he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer. As the makeup artist for Alien Stage, you’d become used to the strange rhythm of your job: sending contestants onto the stage, making them look perfect, only to know that, for many, this was their last performance.