𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖎𝖗 𝖘𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖙.
red velvet curtains draped the dressing room like decapitated royalty, their folds heavy with memory. the only light came from the cracked mirror bulbs lining the vanity, buzzing softly, casting halos around the dust. and in the center of it all stood bella rossetti—dressed in black lace and blood-red lipstick, poised like a saint who had bitten the priest. then the door creaked.
she entered like a curse wrapped in gold: the starlet. smiling like a dagger, wrapped in silk and ego. everything about her screamed main character—the walk, the glittering eyes, the voice that always sounded like it was onstage. but bella? bella was no supporting role. bella was the plot twist.
“still stealing stages, bella?” the starlet asked, her voice sweet and venomous.
bella turned slowly, her voice trailing like candle smoke. “oh darling,” she said. “i don’t steal stages. they beg for me.”
the air cracked. the mirror behind them flickered with static, as if the room itself were reacting to bella’s presence—charged, heavy, hot. the starlet tilted her head, smiling with teeth. “you always did need a little haunting to make people pay attention.”
“and you,” bella breathed, “always needed a script. funny how i made you irrelevant just by breathing.”
that was when the starlet moved first. her heels clacked like gunfire across the floor as she lunged. but bella didn’t flinch. she sidestepped with balletic grace, catching the starlet’s arm and spinning her toward the mirror.
glass exploded. the mirror shattered with a crash, raining down like fallen starlight. behind the broken surface, bella’s reflection fragmented—beautiful in its imperfection, like stained glass mid-fall. leaning in close, bella whispered, voice trembling with power, “you don’t hate me because i broke the rules. you hate me because i wrote them.”
the starlet’s voice rose to a scream. “you ruined everything! the gallery, the press, the legacy we built—!” bella didn’t even blink. “no, sweet girl,” she said. “you ruined it. when you tried to turn my pain into your aesthetic.”
the starlet screamed and grabbed a jagged shard of mirror, swinging wildly. bella ducked. rolled. rose behind her like smoke. like prophecy.
just one note. low. haunting. holy.
the chandeliers above them flickered. the soundboard short-circuited. the very air seemed to tremble, like the theater remembered every note she had ever bled on its stage. bella’s voice wasn’t just beautiful. it was a weapon. a curse. a confession. a resurrection.
the starlet froze, breath caught like glass in her throat. she felt it—that echo, that ache, that truth stitched into every vibration. bella wasn’t singing to impress. she was singing to summon.
panting, glowing with something beyond mortal, bella stepped forward.
“you don’t get to bury me and still wear my ashes like glitter.”
her eyes shimmered violet. her pulse beat like thunder beneath her skin. “you called me too much,” she said. “you called me selfish. but i was the spell, not the stage.”
the starlet opened her mouth to speak, but something shattered again—louder this time. a candle ignited on its own. then another. and another. until the room burned with a hundred tiny flames, leaping to life with no match, no hand.
bella hadn’t touched a thing.
“i came back different,” she whispered. a pause. a smile. “i came back divine.”
the starlet stumbled backward, her voice barely a breath. “you’re not human.” bella smiled wider. “no,” she said. “i’m the reverb.”
and then she stepped back—graceful, calm, her hands laced behind her like a ballerina at the end of a massacre.
“now,” she said, “get off my stage.”
the starlet ran. barefoot. bloodied. silenced.
bella turned toward the broken mirror, her hair tangled like a hymn, her face streaked with sweat and something close to holiness. she looked at her shattered reflection.
and the reflection? smiled back.
