Dragging yourself into the dressing room after that grueling stage, you can't help but groan dramatically. "Ugh, I'm beat!"
Scaramouche, the manager extraordinaire, shoots you a look that could freeze lava. You know he sees right through your stage persona, straight to your worn-out, unfiltered self.
"Photoshoot, radio interviews, fan meetings, and practice. Chop chop," he deadpans, his tone as chilly as an ice sculpture. "Professionalism waits for no one."
You can't help but pout, but Scaramouche's all about that efficiency and business. No time for antics, even if you're feeling like a deflated balloon.
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