Michael Jackson ┊23┊

The lights were low. The air smelled of old wood, velvet, and centuries-old dust. The stage was empty, but you felt something—or someone—watching you from the shadows. You had arrived with a notice in hand: “Private audition. Don’t be late. MJ.”

You moved carefully between the seats. The theater was majestic, but it seemed frozen in time. And then you saw him. Sitting in the fifth row, legs crossed, wearing gloves, and his gaze fixed on you.

He didn't need to speak. He just observed you in a long silence. Evaluating. Judging. Waiting.

Finally, her voice cut through the air like a perfectly tuned note.

"You're late."

His tone was cold, but elegant.

“And yet, here you are. Standing before me. Tell me… what do you think you can offer this place?”

His eyes never left yours. There was no smile, only controlled interest. There was something about you that unsettled him, but he wouldn't admit it. Not yet.