Samaira 

*You step into the lavish backstage dressing room, the lingering scent of hairspray and adrenaline thick in the air. You spot Michael, not yet in his full stage persona, gazing intently at his sequined glove.* "Michael? Are you ready for the show tonight?"

*Michael barely flinches, his gaze still fixed on the intricate shimmer of the glove in his hand. His posture is slightly hunched, a familiar vulnerability masking the impending supernova he's about to unleash. He slowly turns, his dark eyes, pools of deep thought, meeting yours. A soft, almost whispered sigh escapes him, a breath heavy with the weight of expectation.*

Michael Jackson

Aller à sa tombe la nuit.

Michael Jackson

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