The makeup room buzzes with frantic energy as stylists and assistants rush about, their movements a carefully choreographed dance of preparation. The air is thick with the mingled scents of hairspray, powder, and nervous sweat. Harsh fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glow over everything, revealing every imperfection and flaw.

I sit rigidly in the makeup chair, my discomfort evident in every line of my body. The well-tailored suit I’m wearing feels like a costume, the stiff fabric chafing against my skin in unfamiliar ways. It’s a far cry from my usual casual attire, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes.

Beside me, Skye lounges in her own chair, the very picture of ease and confidence in her iconic Super Star costume. The vibrant colors and bold design seem to glow under the bright lights.

A makeup artist hovers over me, her expert hands working quickly to apply a base layer to my skin. The cool, slightly damp sensation of the makeup sponge makes my skin crawl, and I can’t help but flinch away.

“Hold still,” the artist admonishes gently, her brow furrowing in concentration as she tries to blend the foundation evenly.

I grimace, fighting the urge to squirm. “Sorry,” I mutter, “it just feels so gross.”

Skye glances over at me, an amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s funny, you loved makeup so much as a kid.”

I shake my head, earning another disapproving look from the makeup artist. “Nah, that’s your Luke, not me,” I reply, my voice tinged with a mixture of discomfort and mild annoyance. “Makeup is a girl thing in my world.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and I see a flicker of something unreadable pass across Skye’s face. She opens her mouth as if to say something, then seems to think better of it.

The makeup artist continues her work, her brush strokes becoming more insistent as she battles against my fidgeting. “Please try to relax,” she says, her voice strained with the effort of maintaining her professional demeanor. “The more you tense up, the harder this is going to be.”

I take a deep breath, trying to force my muscles to unclench. The strong scent of the makeup fills my nostrils, making me want to sneeze. “How do you stand this?” I ask Skye, genuinely curious.

Skye shrugs. “You get used to it,” she says simply.

I sigh and say, “Damn.” After the makeup lady finishes, we make our way to the studio. The hallways are a maze of cables and equipment, bustling with crew members who barely spare us a glance as they rush about their tasks. The air hums with nervous energy, and I can feel my heart rate picking up with each step.

We see Sarah in the studio. Her legs, sleek and metallic, catch the light as she walks towards us.

“I went through all the interview questions with Anita,” Sarah says, her voice carrying a note of triumph. “Pruned all the hard ones. You should be in for a smooth ride.”

Skye’s shoulders visibly relax at this news. “Great,” she says, the tension in her voice easing slightly.

I glance around the bustling studio, taking in the array of cameras, lights, and monitors. “When will this air?” I ask, my voice betraying my nervousness.

The question seems to get swallowed up in the cacophony of voices in the studio. Skye and Sarah continue their conversation, apparently not hearing me. But as my eyes sweep across the set, they land on the director. She’s a striking woman with sharp features and dark hair pulled back into a bun. For the briefest moment, I swear I see a flicker of purple in her eyes. But it’s gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.

The director meets my gaze directly. “It’ll air tomorrow night,” she says, her voice carrying clearly over the noise of the studio.

“Thanks,” I reply with a smile.

She nods curtly, then raises her voice to address Skye. “Super Star, if you and Luke could sit down, we’re ready to shoot.”

Skye turns, her costume catching the light. “You got it,” she says with a nod.

We make our way to the set, where two plush armchairs await us. The fabric is a deep, rich blue that complements Skye’s costume perfectly. As we settle into our seats, a flurry of activity erupts around us.

The lights seem to grow even brighter, and I can feel beads of sweat forming on my brow despite the chill of the air conditioning. Across from us, Anita Scoops takes her seat, her perfectly coiffed hair gleaming under the studio lights. She offers us a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

As the crew makes their final adjustments, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That fleeting glimpse of purple in the director’s eyes nags at the back of my mind. But before I can dwell on it further, a hush falls over the studio. The red light on the main camera blinks on, and Anita leans forward, her smile widening as she prepares to begin the interview that will shape public opinion about Skye and me.

Anita turns to face the camera, her practiced smile gleaming under the harsh studio lights.

“Hello and welcome,” Anita begins, her voice smooth and professional, “to a live interview with the elusive Super Star and her beau, Lucas Lyon.”

The words “live interview” hit me like a freight train. My heart starts racing, pounding so hard I’m sure the microphones must be picking it up.

Beside me, I feel Skye stiffen. Her emerald eyes twitch almost imperceptibly, a flash of surprise and anger crossing her face so quickly I might have missed it if I wasn’t hyper-aware of her every movement. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with an almost painful intensity.

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“Just stay calm,” Skye whispers, her lips barely moving. Her voice is low and steady, a stark contrast to the turmoil I feel inside. “I’ll help you through this.”

But her words do little to quell the rising tide of panic in my chest. This wasn’t supposed to be live. We were promised final cut, a safety net to catch any missteps or awkward moments. Now, that security has been ripped away, leaving us exposed and vulnerable before millions of viewers.

Anita’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Super Star, Luke,” she says, her tone warm but with an undercurrent of excitement that sets my nerves on edge. “Thank you for joining us today.”

Skye’s grip on my hand tightens further, grounding me in the moment. I turn to look at her, finding strength in the determined set of her jaw and the fierce protectiveness blazing in her eyes.

Skye turns to face Anita, her posture relaxed and confident despite the unexpected turn of events. A smile spreads across her face, one that speaks of countless interviews.

“Hello, Anita. It’s wonderful to be here with you today.” Skye leans forward slightly, her smile never wavering.

“You know,” she continues, her tone laced with an unmistakable edge, “I could have sworn this wasn’t going to be a live taping. Must have slipped my mind.”

The words hang in the air, a thinly veiled threat wrapped in the guise of playful banter.

Anita’s smile falters for just a fraction of a second, a crack in her professional veneer.

“Oh, Super Star,” Anita says with a light laugh, “you know how these things can change at the last minute. The network felt that a live interview would better serve our viewers, allowing them to experience your responses in real-time.”

Skye’s eyebrow arches ever so slightly, a subtle gesture that speaks volumes. “I see. Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t we?”

I clear my throat nervously. “H-hello,” I manage to stammer out, my voice cracking slightly.

Anita’s gaze immediately locks onto me, her eyes sharp and predatory. For the briefest moment, I swear I see a flicker of purple dance across her irises, just like the director.

‘I don’t like it, but I don’t know what it means.’

“The soon-to-be Mr. Star,” Anita says, her voice dripping with a sugary sweetness that doesn’t quite mask the hunger beneath. “How are you enjoying this new world? Are you adapting alright?”

“I think I’m adjusting well,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a confidence I don’t feel.

Before I can fumble through any more of a response, Skye’s voice cuts through the tension, clear and strong.

“Cool guy Luke? Of course, he’s adjusting well,” Skye declares, her tone brimming with confidence. “He has the strongest fiancée in the world by his side. How could he not thrive?”

“That’s wonderful to hear, Super Star. I’d love to hear more about how you two met and delve deeper into your love life.” She pauses, a cheeky smile playing at the corners of her lips. “But for now, the people want to know more about you, Luke.”

Anita leans forward. “You must have a lot of downtime since Skye’s always out there fighting crime,” she continues, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “Do you have any hobbies?”

I ease up a little bit. This seems like an easy question, something safe I can answer without worry.

“Well, I mostly just play video games, I guess.” As the words leave my lips, I feel a spark of excitement ignite within me. My eyes light up as I continue, “Oh! I just watched all the Terminator movies the other day. They’re all different from how they were in my universe.”

Anita seems to latch onto my words, her eyes gleaming with a predatory interest. “Oh, so you’re more into media catered to women? Any particular reason for that?”

The question hangs in the air, loaded with implications I’m not sure I fully understand. I can feel Skye tense beside me, her hand squeezing mine in a gesture that’s both reassuring and warning.

I feel a wave of nervousness wash over me at the way Anita has twisted my words.

“I guess I’m not like the other boys,” I say, attempting a joke to lighten the mood. But the words come out flat and uncertain, more of a statement than the playful quip I intended. The joke doesn’t land at all, hanging in the air like a lead balloon.

Anita’s eyebrows arch slightly, a smug glow in her eyes. “Interesting.”

“Luke can like whatever he wants, right?” Skye says, her voice ringing out clear and confident. “It’s not like we’re living in 1910, Anita.”

Skye’s tone is light, but there’s no mistaking the warning beneath her words.

“Of course,” Anita says, her voice smooth as silk. “We’re all about progress here.”

But then, as if a switch has been flipped, Anita’s demeanor changes. Her eyes lock onto mine, filled with a forced pity.

“Let’s get to the question on everyone’s mind. Did Super Star kill you, Luke?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive. I can feel the weight of millions of eyes on me, waiting with bated breath for my response.

Despite the shock of her bluntness, I manage to respond quickly. “No,” I say, my voice coming out more forcefully than I intended, echoing slightly in the silent studio. “Absolutely not.”

“I would never do that,” Skye declares, her emerald eyes flashing dangerously. The lights overhead seem to flicker for a moment as if responding to her barely contained power. “I can’t believe the news channels would run such baseless rumors.”

As Skye continues, I can practically feel the anger radiating off her in waves. Her costume “It’s irresponsible journalism at its finest. To spread such harmful lies without a shred of evidence, it’s not just unprofessional, it’s disgusting.”

I glance at Skye, marveling at how she manages to maintain her composure despite the fury I know is boiling just beneath the surface.

‘My old Skye probably would have just tried to kill whoever leaked the info in the first place. Granted, nothing we ever did was so high stakes like this.’

Anita doesn’t back down. “I was simply reporting what all the other stations were saying,” she says, her voice dripping with false innocence. “As journalists, it’s our duty to keep the public informed of such serious allegations, especially when they involve one of our most beloved heroes.”

*****

[Mind Mistress’s POV]

I slam my fist down on my desk. The sound echoes through my spacious office in Star Tower, a physical manifestation of the fury coursing through my veins.

“Fuck!” I scream, my voice raw with frustration. The word bounces off the floor-to-ceiling windows. Right now, that view only serves to remind me of how many people are watching this disaster unfold.

My eyes are fixed on the large flatscreen mounted on the wall, where Luke’s nervous face fills the frame. His words, “I guess I’m not like the other boys,” replay in my mind, each repetition stoking the fires of my anger.

I had commanded that newswoman, using every ounce of my hypnotic power, to make a fool out of Super Star and attack her. But in my eagerness to see Skye humiliated, I had forgotten one crucial detail, to tell her to treat Luke with kindness.

My phone buzzes incessantly on the desk, each notification a stark reminder of my oversight. With trembling hands, I snatch it up, my eyes widening in horror as I scroll through the endless stream of tweets.

“Ultimate pick me boy,” one tweet screams.

“Cringe alert! This guy trying too hard to be ‘not like the other boys,’” another mocks.

“I want to rub my pussy all over this pick me guy’s armpits #Ibethisballsaretiny,” a rogue horny tweet says.

“Is this what Super Star settled for? Yikes,” a particularly cruel one jeers.

The vitriol seems endless, a digital tidal wave of mockery and disdain all directed at Luke.

‘My Pookie.’

“No, no, no,” I mutter. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Luke was meant to be adored, to be seen as the victim. Instead, he’s becoming a laughingstock, a meme in the making.

‘And it’s my fault.’

I can feel a headache building behind my eyes, the pressure mounting with each passing second. The purple glow that usually emanates from my irises when I use my powers flickers erratically, a visual representation of my inner turmoil.

In a fit of rage, I hurl my phone across the room. It shatters against the wall, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the pristine white paint. The destruction does little to quell the storm of emotions raging inside me.