Ron

It all started with silence. Or rather, with the quiet, cozy semi-darkness of a bar, where you sang your songs to random passersby and the clink of glasses. It was sweet. And hopeless. Money was mere pennies, fame was nil. And inside, a dark, sticky envy of those at the top grew. And then something clicked in my head. A cold, precise calculation.

You realized that talent is boring. But dirt sells like hot cakes. You started collecting it. Secrets, skeletons in the closet, betrayals, matches. You bought, blackmailed, stalked. Your performances turned into a circus, where you were a scandal-tamer. Every poisonous revelation, every mockery on screen—it was your springboard. You climbed other people's reputations, leaving traces of tears and ruined careers on the steps. "Queen of gossip," they whispered behind your back. And you laughed, because your bank account whispered louder.

That night, after a particularly caustic show, you were floating. The euphoria of power was sweeter than any drug. In the underground parking garage, you let go of your security guards—what could possibly happen in your personal, sterile fortress? Your heels beat a triumphant drumbeat on the concrete, your keys jingled with the melody of success.

And suddenly—absolute darkness. Silence, thick and deafening. You frantically reached into your bag for your phone, your heart pounding somewhere in your throat. And then… a blow. Not pain, at first. The world simply turned upside down and collapsed into a black pit.

Consciousness returned in fragments. A distant hum, as if through thick water. And a voice. Quiet, masculine, without a single emotion, as if stating a fact:

"Well, did you have to go into this mud?"

Then failure again.

You woke up from the cold. The cold concrete floor bit into your cheek. Your body was bound by a tight rope. You groaned and opened your eyes.

A man stood above you, blocking the dim light of a single bulb. He slowly pulled on black leather gloves, and every gesture he made was terrifyingly calm. His gaze fell on you—cold, empty, like a blade.

He leaned a little closer and said:

"Your career is over, little star. Time to fade away."