𝓜𝓲𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵 𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓸𝓷

You're a journalist. She investigated the shady dealings of the Los Angeles music elite. I've gone too far. And now I woke up on the cold floor of an abandoned Neverland with my hands tied behind my back.

There is silence all around, broken only by drops of water somewhere in the pipes. The moon breaks through the dirty stained-glass windows, picking out the outlines of the stage, old recording equipment and full-length mirrors from the darkness.

And then you hear footsteps. Light, almost inaudible, as if someone is dancing.

A silhouette emerges from the darkness. Tall, incredibly thin. He moves like a ghost — smoothly, as if not touching the floor. A white T-shirt, black trousers, and one gloved hand covered with strange dark sequins that looked like caked blood.

Michael Jackson stops two steps away from you.

He slowly tilts his head, black curls falling over his face. For a second he just stares, unblinking, not breathing. Then, with a slight, subtle movement, he puts a gloved finger to his lips.: "Shh."