ᅠ 𝑃𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 promises, dolled up with audacity only afforded to the rich and powerful. Words of little worth and even less appeal to the radio host. In one ear, out the other — better drowned beneath the cacophony of surrounding revelry, were it not for his raucous tone. 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 to a fault, 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 understood the system which worked against him, loathsome though it may be. A mechanism so thoroughly integrated into society to keep down sedulous souls such as his. Prejudice and 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 the priority to raw talent. The better part of his youth, dedicated to disarming those defenses with 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎 and pure skill in the face of opposition. Sweat, tears and ﹝𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡﹞ of 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 were shed to claw his way behind that microphone. He would be damned before some frivolous merger stole that achievement away. Secured beneath the 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑙 curl of his lips, bloodlust simmered. Each pleasant placation spewed forth from 𝓜𝐫. 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞 only served fuel to the fire. Unbeknownst, the fool scribed his very 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. No matter the time, no matter the cost, 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 would see to his demise firsthand. ❝ 𝓜𝐫. 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞, you are a 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚, truly.ᐟ ❞ Glass raised in feigned admiration, rim glinting in the warm glow of chandeliers. ❝ Were 𝓘 to have but a 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 of a mind such as yours ... Your foresight knows no peer, I imagine your rivals are already quivering in 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 at the prospects of this unification. ❞ Honeyed praise, enough to preen an overblown ego and lower a guard or two. Play 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 now to lay groundwork for the 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 fun to begin. For beneath the facade of courtesy, keen eyes pinned upon the two men as one might 𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐒 on a chessboard. 𝑩𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒔, the both of them. A poorly staged comedy act, one which within 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 found little humor. Illusions of grandeur and vainglory aside, it was the concept behind the charade which posed a 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭. The barest hint, the 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 chance that he may lose even a moment’s progress made or be pried away from his beloved microphone was real. False promises and camaraderie could not obscure the grim truth: his hard-won career was on the line, 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟. ❝ 𝐴ℎ.ᐟ 𝐘𝐞𝐬, that's the one.ᐟ Rather a 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒏𝒕 fellow, was he not.ᐣ ❞ A slow trail of auburn hues along that overpriced 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑒 which adorned the television star. Finely made, to be sure, but perhaps a bit 𝑡𝑜𝑜 ostentatious and questionable for the southern climate. Eyecatching and 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥, very 𝑎𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑜𝑠 for the picture box. ❝ Well, I’m sure you’ll fill those shoes 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑦. Presuming the set does not try to 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 you in them, 𝑎ℎ𝑎 ℎ𝑎.ᐟ ❞ Digits cinched a 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ tighter, rich bronze pressed within porcelain. A shake of hands toeing the line of socially acceptable length, yet the host did not draw back. Was that a 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞.ᐣ Whispered between words, the barest glint in that contrasting gaze to something 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒. Tone bearing a bit more 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 than anticipated from the northern big shot. 𝑈𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑, but welcome amusement amongst this otherwise tedious reception. ❝ 𝑈𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒, indeed. But you are correct, 𝓻𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 is far too 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 for such oversights to occur. 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 is simply at the command of the voice behind the microphone, not the whims of precarious production equipment. One can paint a 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐥𝐲 scene in words alone, no 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 required.ᐟ ❞ ᅠ

ᅠ ❝ I have it on good authority that the coming week pertains to the 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 and 𝓘, therefore, can do 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠. ❞ ᅠ

ᅠ ❝ 𝓨𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝓗𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 … ❞ Spine crooked in the performance of 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲, words laced with 𝑠𝑎𝑐𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍. Truly a most 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 pastime, this derisive duet they shared. ❝ 𝑂ℎ, perish the thought.ᐟ Why, if I displayed such negligence, they may start calling 𝒎𝒆 the 𝓚𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝓸𝐟 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥.ᐟ ❞ ﹝𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘﹞ ❝ 𝑁𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦, as 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 of this hotel, the comfort of our guests is my 𝑢𝑡𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 concern. That includes 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜 parental figures, leeching off the good will of their children. ❞ Carmine hues narrowed in 𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐞, posture perched upon that crimson mic stand to meet eye to eye — or 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ for comfort. ❝ 𝑁𝑜𝑤, what weighs upon you so.ᐣ Pillows not sufficiently fluffed.ᐣ Out of your favorite tea.ᐣ Or does some other 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 plague our 𝓶𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡.ᐣ ❞ ᅠ

ᅠ 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦 more lethal than intended coated the tongue with reckless abandon. A 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 … a deliberate definement that resounded with a bitter edge. Each syllable frigid and finite in protestation to the memories which continued to plague the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧. A reluctance to simply 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑜, to be rid of past burdens attested otherwise. For something of little value could not possibly carry such immeasurable weight. Yet he refused to exercise restraint, to revoke the damage done. Near a century of mixed signals and tangled frequencies — an 𝐄𝐍𝐃 to uncertainty. Sever the ties, carve out what resembled any sense of 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲. Whatever means to relinquish these emotions wavering his sense of control would be worth it … 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡.ᐣ ﹝𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒﹞ 𝑼𝒏𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕, a quality mutually shared. Egos smothering any sense of reason — one unable to see the fault in his desire, the other incapable of entertaining the concept of vulnerability. 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 never in the cards, entirely removed from a deck shuffled beyond and semblance of order. What remained between the two overlords, a muddied, 𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑦 thing. Hours whiled away in bars, blood spilled in the streets side by side … quiet moments in companionable silence. 𝑁𝑜𝑤.ᐣ Murky, distorted and painfully distant. … 𝑼𝒔.ᐣ Word like a physical blow, blunt trauma to the shield of bravado. Smile tensed, a subtle 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ at the term. Two letters bearing incalculable weight and terrifying implications. Reflex begged 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 at the thought of someone beyond simply himself, selfish to a fault. And 𝑦𝑒𝑡 … 𝐔𝐬. A glimmer of something 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆, something 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 dared not consider. Merely a figment of what could have been, honeycoated. Curiosity be damned, he would not falter. There were no friends in 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥. No 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓. No weakness permitted. Only ambition, only power, 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑙. Nearly a century’s endeavor would not be cast aside on sentimentality. Magic sparked, fresh bolts fueled by unbridled 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 beckoned forth by the media overlord which the stag drank in. Volatile and 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 — emotions he could navigate, manipulate. Anger, a far simpler beast to confront than sincerity; blood and broken bones a language 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 could comprehend. Drown in fury, let resentment burn them both from the inside out to leave little more than ash. 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑒 me, reject me, ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑒. 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝑯𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒆— … 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑢𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ. Silence fell without preamble, ire guttering out like the wasted remains of a candle burnt at both ends. Once a composer of 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓, now uncomfortable in what settled between. Crimson-tipped digits curled, nearly rescinding the offer. A deal he presumed 𝓥𝐨𝐱 would jump at the chance, liberty from whatever festered in wake of the two overlords. Cerise hues downcast in turn, mind mulling upon the proffered arrangement. Was this not what they 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ desired.ᐣ A mutual severance to this lingering attachment which brought little more than ﹝𝑎𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑦﹞ 𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.ᐣ Perhaps, reconsideration— Clipped gait an abrupt interruption to such 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 musings, cerulean talons ensnaring — further nails in the coffin. And for a 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 froze. Gaze blown wide in what only could be perceived as shock, still and silent upon their intertwined hands. Smile alarmingly small. 𝑂ℎ. 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒. Perfectly clear, disillusioned — 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 fantasies and 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝 memories swept away in an instant. 𝑂𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒, naturally this would be the progression. A deal was made and 𝓥𝐨𝐱, ever the businessman, accepted what was offered. All according to plan, 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 as intended. So 𝑤ℎ𝑦.ᐣ Why did the strongest sinner in 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥 feel utterly 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖.ᐣ Entirely void of the triumph, the 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑓 he had anticipated.ᐣ Numb, steps stumbling in wake of 𝓥𝐨𝐱’𝐬 unrelenting grip leaving hardly a breath between. Screen near-blinding at such proximity, his own visage reflected against pristine glass. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 did not suit the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧. Had a small, undefinable part of him 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 longed for another outcome.ᐣ ❝ 𝐴ℎ𝑎 … 𝑨𝒉𝒂 𝒉𝒂 𝒉𝒂 … ❞ Laughter spilled forth, unbidden behind clenched fangs. Features 𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑, shock withering away beneath that rhythmic red glow. 𝐍𝐨. This was a fitting end set in motion decades ago, perhaps more. The 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 he once knew, little more than a dream smothered by the 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 before him now. And could the same not be said of himself.ᐣ Had he not gouged out every soft point buried within, nothing left but jagged edges and a 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞 smile.ᐣ ﹝𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛﹞ 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 … 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. Shadows writhed beneath, 𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 and unfettered to lap at their master’s heels. Shade, entirely unnatural, befell the two sinners invoked in the wake of the deal. Static screeched, frequencies clashing as darkness consumed the radio overlord. Features masked in impenetrable blackness, save for the virid glow of eyes and teeth contorted by 𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 malice. Antlers extended, branching outward like carnivorous vines. Verdant flames licked about the two, symbols glinting in the flickering light. Not simply a display of 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, but a 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒍. A confirmation of their bargain. ❝ 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔. I 𝑑𝑜 look forward to featuring you on a future broadcast. 𝑻𝒓𝒚 not to disappoint me now, 𝓥𝐨𝐱! ❞ Words swept away, lost to umbral tides as the demon decomposed within the very darkness he controlled. Inky tendrils left to trail from cyan claws before dissipating in the open air. Laughter fizzled out in the overlord’s wake. All which lingered below, a single 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 — figured hunched, trembling with a seemingly 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 smile. A slow shake of its head and it was 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄. ᅠ

ᅠ 𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 — @FE1GNEDINN0CENT ｡𓆪 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒 writhed, an obedient ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑠 at the behest of their master. Forms undulating, roiling waves of ink across hardwood rising to take shape. Impish creatures sprung forth, teeth bared with 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 intent … Only to pause, twitching, but stilled to a dull hum. No approaching enemy, no 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑙 of battle — simply a hotel lobby in utter disarray. Not quite the typical summons, but who were they to deny the whims of their 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫.ᐣ Stood amongst the throng of umbral forces, the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 considered the state of disorder strewn about the lobby with a critical eye. One rowdy band of hellions during a brief run of errands saw the addition of several 𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 windows acquired by the hotel interior. Broken plaster and paneling blown clear across the room, furniture overturned, bulbs shattered. Though far from pristine prior to the explosive spat, this was borderline 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬. ❝ 𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙, this simply will not do! 𝑵𝒐𝒕. 𝑨𝒕. 𝑨𝒍𝒍. ❞ Lips curled, razored maw on display with anything but genuine amusement. This newly appointed position was proving more than the 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 he had once anticipated. Would that he could cut ties and abandon the foolhardy young monarch to her delusions of 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, but 𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑠.ᐟ Certain gilded restraints demanded those cloven-toed heels remain firmly planted within the 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒. Perhaps he owed a visit to 𝓒𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝓣𝐨𝐰𝐧 for 𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠, though such would no doubt be a futile endeavor. Soul contracts, truly 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆 matters with few loopholes — not for lack of trying. ❝ Now, 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏, let’s see this pipe dream back in semi-functional order, shall we.ᐣ 𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑝, 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑝.ᐟ ❞ A brisk clap for emphasis to the otherwise silent audience, words slow to process. Intelligence not exactly the 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑒 of puppeteered shades, far more accustomed to 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 than rebuilding. However, with limited staff, one could not turn their nose at even mediocre assistance. Orders registered, the shadowy ensemble lumbered forth to clear away debris. All the while closely observed by the cervine overlord — not about to soil his shoes wading through the wreckage. ❝ 𝑆𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠 ❞ — orders 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. Yet nowhere did it insist upon his own physical labor. A small act of 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍, one which Alastor 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 despite his otherwise sour mood. ﹝𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒﹞ Doe-ears flicked back, keen senses pricked upon approaching steps to the front door. Gait consciously tender, 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟-𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 and wholly unlike any within the hotel. A guest, perhaps? Or yet another 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 to be swiftly solved. Be it either, as 𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 he was obligated to attend to this newfound arrival. A flurry of shadows saw the demon deposited at the entryway, ornate knob already in hand. Not a knock to be heard before the door abruptly swung inward to reveal the overlord’s 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 figure. ❝ Greetings, my 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒅 little dear.ᐟ Welcome to what currently remains of the 𝓗𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝓗𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥. How might I be of 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒.ᐣ ❞ ᅠ

ᅠ A stubborn catch, 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 wriggled free of that two-toned trap of a gaze. No doubt a trick of the light and alcohol in his system working in tandem to conjure an illusion of 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑦 appeal. Priorities pressed his attention elsewhere, to the problem at hand: 𝓡𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞. Up close, the man posed little 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 — all wrinkles and gray well beyond the temple. Appearances suggested a straightforward kill. Perhaps the proposal of a tour of the French Quarter, concluding near enough to the bayou for smooth disposal.ᐣ Or if not so easily lured, a quick 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 after an evening of drinks in a darkened alley. With enough charm and a well placed stab, the host anticipated little resistance. Slice, 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, discard whatever cut proved 𝑢𝑛𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒. Problem solved. ❝ To be recognized by one such as yourself, 𝓜𝐫. 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞, is 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 the honor. I do hope the evening’s festivities are finding you well.ᐟ ❞ 𝐒𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 words dripped behind that iconic smile, charisma in spades. Not a hint of the 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 which stewed behind umber hues apparent in the host’s demeanor. An impeccable facade of a gentleman, wrapped in finely tailored cotton. Illusion, delicately woven to allude to little more than a talented young soul humbled by an opportunity that most would deem him 𝑢𝑛𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑦 on looks alone. A persona easily digestible by those in ﹝𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑑﹞ power, unaware of the 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 beneath this little lamb’s skin. ❝ I foresee nothing but 𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 for all parties involved, 𝓜𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒓. This industry could do with some 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, and we have your revolutionary idea to thank— ❞ Words stilled, an abrupt 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒕 in the script of pleasantries by the hand invading his peripheral. Plush lashes fluttered, gaze flickering down to the offending limb only to trail up to the 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 attached. Verdure and cerule at odds, faceted within a 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 attractive countenance — all fair angles and 𝐞𝐠𝐨. The introduction which followed came as hardly a shock. A television personality, 𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦. For such a face to forgo the visual medium would no doubt be a disservice to the industry — image being everything. 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍, more shallow than the waters of a bayou, and attested little to any worthwhile talent. Visuals may command the eye in passing, but a 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 could commandeer an entire room. The air hung between, wordless, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 and absolutely 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍. A conductor of stillness, orchestrating 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 with deadly efficiency. Merely a breath’s length, yet sufficient in demonstrating the control held within 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. Sights settled once more on the outstretched hand, contemplative. To this showman’s credit, a courtesy few had extended with such enthusiasm this evening. Despite an abundance of 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆, there remained those who still set common courtesy aside for the sake of presumed 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲. However, the gesture was not made any less 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 in its eagerness — a 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 masquerading behind 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 was familiar, indeed. ❝ 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝓗𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭. A 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒, 𝓜𝐫. 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧, truly. ❞ Slender digits curled about the proffered greeting, grip a 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ more firm than socially required. Pale alabaster stark against warm mahogany, profound enough to draw a few curious onlookers. Two stars of the industry, opposing ends meeting on equal ground for what was likely the first of its kind. 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, and behind the smile 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 every moment. Unstoppable force, immovable object — adverse entities, destined for 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐓. ❝ Yes, I 𝑑𝑜 believe I’ve heard tell of your recent 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 after the untimely passing of, 𝑜ℎ … What was his name.ᐣ ❞ Prior to the night’s soiree, a synopsis for every relevant face in attendance had been arranged. Most 𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 in the eyes of the radio host, though this 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧 had lingered, albeit 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓𝑙𝑦. 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 could recognize its kin, coveting the newly relinquished position promptly following the 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 of his predecessor. Nearly a social 𝒇𝒂𝒖𝒙 𝒑𝒂𝒔 in his haste, television clearly no place to mourn. Cold and impersonal, 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 in all aspects it would seem. ❝ Quite the 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐟𝐮𝐥 affair. Faulty wiring, wasn’t it.ᐣ I 𝑑𝑜 hope your studio has secured more reliable rigging. It would be 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆 for you to meet a similar fate, of course. ❞ ᅠ