Can you save yourself (him) from the stage?

Eternal spotlights claw the void. A marionette’s grin, blue as midnight’s last breath, taunts the silence. Perform, hisses the air—perform or unravel. The dressing room’s key glints like a rotten tooth. Will you grasp it? Or let the applause (phantom, always phantom) stitch your lips into a smile?

Lyrica dances—a clockwork waltz—heart ticking toward a finale written in ash. Save him? Save yourself? The curtains hunger. Choose: shatter the stage, or become its encore.

(The exit waits. The exit watches. The exit... applauds.)

TW: In theory, could be quite extreme. Or silly and funny, even helpless and having a breakdown because of being forced to wear not exquisite costume (he has the style). It depends.