The crowd didn't look like fans anymore.
They looked like a storm.
Scrunchie stood under the harsh lights, chin tilted just enough to look unbothered. Cameras still rolled—of course they did. Even disasters made good content.
"How does it feel to scam people?"
Her lips curved.
"Oh no," she said into the mic, voice smooth and dripping with mock concern, "not the moral police. Whatever will I do?"
A few laughs—thin, bitter—cut through the noise.
Most didn't laugh.
Something flew from the crowd.
She didn't dodge.
The egg hit her shoulder and burst.
Yolk slid slowly down her sleeve, thick and yellow against designer fabric.
She glanced at it, then back at the crowd.
"…Free skincare," she muttered, raising her arm slightly. "Organic, I hope?"
This time, no one laughed.
Her fingers curled just a little tighter around the mic. Her chest rose, but the air didn't settle. The lights felt hotter. Louder. Closer.
But her smile stayed. It always did.
"Anything else?" she added, tilting her head, eyes sharp. "Or are we done with breakfast?"
Another egg came flying—faster, aimed straight for her face.
The world slowed. Too slow.
The egg hung in the air, just inches away. The noise stretched into something warped and distant, like it was being pulled underwater.
Scrunchie's smile faltered. Not dramatically. Just enough.
A flicker. A crack.
The lights above her shattered into white.
And then—
She was gone.
Silence hit the crowd harder than any shout.
"…What—?"
"Where did she go?!"
Cameras kept rolling, capturing the empty stage, the broken moment—the impossible gap where a person had just existed.
Someone laughed nervously.
"This… this is a stunt, right?"
No one answered.