Record Label or Circus

Spotlights hung from the vaulted ceiling, their bright beams reflecting off gilded walls, casting fleeting shadows across the intricate moldings.

The faint scent of polished wood and scented carpets lingered in the air, mingling with the musty aroma of velvet seats that had absorbed decades of applause.

The plush velvet seats stretched in tiered rows, facing a massive stage, rich crimson curtains though drawn swayed majestically.

The stage itself was a whirlwind of activity.

Artists of every stripe occupied every inch, each lost in their own world of pre-performance panic. In one corner, a pop diva with electric blue hair belted out vocal exercises that sounded more like a cat in heat.

"Mi-mi-mi-MEOW!" she screeched, her vocal coach nodding encouragingly.

"That's it, Starla! Feel the feline within you!"

Nearby, a boy band huddled around their manager, looks of desperation on their perfectly chiseled faces.

"But what if we forget the lyrics?" one fretted, running a hand through his gelled hair.

Their manager rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Smile, flex, and let the autotune do the rest. They're here for the abs, not the anthems."

Center stage, a rapper paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.

"I'm the coolest cat, yeah, I'm all that. Got more swag than... than... a doormat?"

He groaned, clutching his head.

"This is garbage!"

His producer gave him a thumbs up.

"Pure poetry, my man! The kids'll eat it up!"

Makeup artists swarmed around each performer like bees to honey, wielding brushes and palettes like weapons.

One particularly zealous artist attacked a country singer's face with bronzer, leaving him looking more oompa loompa than cowboy.

"Trust me, darling," she cooed, "Orange is the new tan!"

In another corner, a group of dancers stretched in impossible positions, their costumes a riot of sequins and feathers. Their choreographer barked orders like a drill sergeant.

"Higher! Faster! More sparkle!"

One dancer stumbled, sending a cascade of glitter across the stage. "My eyes!" another wailed dramatically. "I'm blind!"

In the audience, Julian and Derrick sat among a cluster of executives.

Julian leaned towards Derrick, his polished facade cracking.

"What in God's name is this rubbish?" he hissed, eyes darting from one catastrophe to another.

Derrick shifted uncomfortably.

"Now, now, Mr. Ashford. They're just warming up-"

"Warming up?" Julian's eyebrows shot up.

"I've heard cats in heat with more musical talent."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Christ, I knew I should've been more hands-on. How the hell are we supposed to face the new owner with this... this circus?"

Off to the side, Jessie bit her lip, struggling to contain her laughter.

Her shoulders shook with the effort of keeping quiet.

Andre lounged nearby, a blunt dangling from his lips. He stared at the ceiling, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Now you know why I lost my afro and my beard turned white," he drawled.

"This ain't no label, it's a cemetery of art."

Derrick leapt to his feet, face flushed with anger.

He jabbed a finger at Andre.

"Watch your mouth! These are your artists too!"

Andre's eyes never left the ceiling.

"Ey, I ain't the one pimping out contracts for spare change."

"You-" Derrick sputtered, his jowls quivering with rage.

"This is your fault! If you did your job properly-"

Andre slowly turned his head, his glazed eyes suddenly sharp with a dangerous glint.

"Fire me then," he said softly, his tone a challenge.

Just then, *CREAKKK*…

The massive theater doors swung open with a thunderous creak, the sound echoing through the cavernous space like a crack of lightning.

As the theater doors creaked open, the cacophony of rehearsals sputtered to a halt, as if the very air had been sucked from the room.

The silence that followed was almost oppressive, thick and heavy, like a storm about to break.

Brandon, still with his face mask on, stepped forward, his footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet.

His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture straight and commanding. Gordon followed a half-step behind, his face an impassive mask.

On stage, the performers stood frozen mid-action.

The pop diva's mouth hung open, her high note dying in her throat. The boy band huddled closer together, eyes wide with apprehension. Even the overzealous makeup artist paused, her brush hovering inches from the country singer's face.

In the audience, heads swiveled.

Julian's face drained of color, his usual composure cracking. Derrick's jowls quivered as he sank back into his seat. Jessie's laughter died on her lips, replaced by a mix of anticipation and worry.

Brandon's gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail.

His expression remained neutral, but his eyes gleamed with an intensity that made several people shift uncomfortably in their seats.

As Brandon and Gordon reached the back row, the theater doors swung shut behind them with a resounding click. The sound seemed to hang in the air, punctuating the gravity of the moment.

Brandon lowered himself into a seat, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Gordon settled beside him, his posture mirroring Brandon's.

For a moment, no one moved.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

Then, Brandon nodded almost imperceptibly to Gordon.

Gordon's hands came together in a sharp clap that rang out like a gunshot.

"Clear the stage," he announced, his crisp British accent cutting through the silence.

"Start the showcase."

Brandon watched as the performers scrambled off stage, a flurry of sequins and panic.

His eyes swept over the executives, noting their nervous fidgeting. Julian caught his gaze, and Brandon saw the calculated charm slip into place.

Brandon remained silent, his gaze steady.

He could practically hear Julian's inner monologue:

'This won't do. I need to buy some time. My job's on the line.'

Julian rose from his seat, smoothing his tailored suit. His lips curved into a practiced smile as he bowed slightly, ready to work his magic.

But before he could take a step, Brandon's hand flicked dismissively through the air.

He turned away, focusing on the now-empty stage.

Julian's smile faltered, his outstretched foot hovering mid-step. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his perfectly groomed stubble.

'Arrogant little prick,' Julian seethed internally.

'Who does he think he is? I've weathered boardroom battles, steered this company through storms that would have sunk lesser men—and now this child dares to dismiss me?'

He sank back into his seat, knuckles white as he gripped the armrests.

His eyes bored into the back of Brandon's head, imagining all sorts of unpleasant fates for the young upstart.

'I've been running this company since before you could walk, boy. You think you can waltz in here and...'

Julian's thoughts spiraled, each more venomous than the last.

But outwardly, he maintained his composure. Only the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusted his tie betrayed his inner turmoil.

Derrick leaned over, whispering urgently.

"Mr. Ashford, shouldn't we-"

Julian silenced him with a look that could have curdled milk.

Derrick recoiled, shrinking back into his seat.

Brandon felt the fury radiating from Julian but kept his gaze fixed ahead.

He settled deeper into his seat, his gaze never wavering from the stage. The showcase would begin soon, but the real test—for them all—was only just starting.