Mark always said that superstition was only fear dressed up as tradition, yet here he was, refusing to put on his wig until his eyeliner was perfect and even.

His dressing room smelled like powder, hairspray, and the faint burn of curling irons from the hallway. The mirror lights buzzed softly, framing his reflection in the halo of white bulbs. Mark leaned closer, steadying his hand as he traced the final line, then leaned back and smiled.

Tonight was the night.

Drag Royale wasn’t just a competition; it was a coronation. Only true royalty made it this far. One performance could turn a bar queen into a legend. And Mark had been invited not just as a filler, nor as comic relief, but as a container.

He reached for his lipstick, twisting the tube with care. The color bloomed against the mirror light: deep plum, almost wine-dark, with a shimmer that seemed to catch fire when he moved.

Sugar Plum, his lucky shade.

Mark pressed it to his lips, blotting once, twice, a third time for luck, before sliding the wig over his hair net, then leaned back in his chair. The girl who stared back at him felt larger than life.

 He capped the lipstick and set it carefully on the counter. He was ready.

“Time to put Mark in the box,” she murmured, standing. “And let Tiffany take the crown.”

The hallway outside the dressing rooms pulsed with life, heels clicking, fabric swishing, laughter cutting sharp through any nerves. Tiffany adjusted her corset to keep her hands busy when she moved. As she turned the corner, she nearly collided with someone glittering from head to toe.

“Oh!” A manicured hand steadied her arm, leaving a trail of blue glitter, “Careful, darling.”

Tiffany’s breath caught; it was Wanda Barry, the Wanda Barry.

Called the Wild Berry, she was a living legend in drag, a three-time Royale winner, known for her razor-sharp wit and performances so polished they bordered on obsession. Her smile was flawless, her blue lips curved just enough to suggest warmth.

“You’re Tiffany,” Wanda said, it wasn’t a question.

Tiffany nodded, reverence tightening her throat. Words felt too small in the presence of someone etched into drag history.

Wanda’s gaze sweeps over Tiffany’s face with a practiced ease, “I’ve heard whispers,” she said lightly. “A rising inferno. The judges adore you; the queens envy your talent.”

Tiffany let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That’s… incredibly kind. Thank you.” Her hands shake slightly with adrenaline.

Wanda laughed, a soft, almost musical sound. “Relax, darling. Nerves don’t photograph well.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against Tiffany’s arm, thoughtfully. “That finale of yours,” she said, voice cool and curious. “The gun. So dramatic. So… risky. Audiences love danger, don’t they? Especially when it’s controlled.” Her smile sharpened just a fraction. “Just make sure you keep your aim steady. One wrong move, and things can fall apart so quickly.”

Wanda’s eyes wander to Tiffany’s lips. “That color,” she said. “Stunning. What shade is it?”

Tiffany glanced at her reflection in a nearby mirror. Finally finding her voice, she tried to speak with as much confidence as Wanda emits. “Sugar Plum. It’s my lucky shade.”

“Of course it is,” Wands said, smiling wider. “It really suits you,” she puts her face next to Tiffany’s, “looks perfect with my tone too.”

Before Tiffany could respond, a stagehand waved frantically down the hall. “Tiffany! Two Minutes!”

Tiffany smiles and bows her head. “That’s me, thank you again.” She repeats before hurrying off, not seeing the way Wanda wipes her hand with a napkin as her smile slowly turns to a sneer.

The stage prep area buzzed with controlled chaos.  Assistants darted in and out, checking props, adjusting costumes, murmuring cues.

“Here you go, love,” said Marco, Tiffany’s stage manager, handing Tiffany her props for her act.

The gun felt heavier than usual. “Is this a new casing?” she asks, tilting it slightly.

Marco nodded, distracted. Tiffany turned the gun once more in her hands. It was cold—colder than it should’ve been—as if it had been waiting.

Tiffany hesitated, but she trusted Marco, knowing he’d never let anything go wrong. She noticed a faint smear of blue glitter along the handle, odd, but easy to dismiss in a place where glitter migrated like pollen.

The music cue echoed faintly from the speakers.

“Places!” someone shouted.

Tiffany took her mark on the stage, heart pounding with the rhythm of the bass, as she waited for the curtain to lift.

This was it.

She heard her stage name called out and the faint intro to her song.

Time to prove to the crowd that she was just like the rest of the queens.

The curtain lifted to reveal her, and the crowd erupted in cheers. She moved with practiced ease, getting lost in the dance; she looked like fire had been given form, her turns were sharp, every motion precise and deliberate. The lights followed her, gold and crimson, reflecting off her costume like sparks. The audience leaned in, captivated by the beauty.

From the shadows beyond the curtain, Wanda watched. The audience wasn’t hers anymore.

The choreography built and built, each beat pulling together until the final moment.

Tiffany raised the gun. She always loved this part, the dramatic pause, the low drumming of the music, the sharp aim upward, the illusion of danger.

She pulled the trigger just as the beat signals.

The sound was wrong. Too loud. Too real.

A sharp crack split the air.

The chandelier above the stage shuddered.

Time seemed to slow as crystal fractured, the light splintering into chaos. The massive fixture tore free, plummeting toward the stage.

Tiffany barely had time to look up. The impact was thunderous.

The glass exploded.

The light went out.

Then fire found fabric, and the audience screamed.

The building was evacuated in minutes. Fire crews swarmed the entrance, smoke billowing into the night sky. News vans arrived almost as fast.

Inside, amid the chaos, a single figure slipped down the back hallways, heels silent against the floor.

Mark’s dressing room was still open, the lights were still on, and his lipstick sat on the counter.

They picked it up, turned it once in their fingers, and smiled.

A week later, the theater had reopened.

The fire damage had been repaired just enough for the show to go on.

Wanda sat in her dressing room; one leg elegantly crossed over the other as she finished putting on her makeup. The blue hues matched her skin perfectly.

She then grabs lipstick from her bag and applies it; it blooms across her face, contrasting perfectly with the blue glitter.

Her personal manager, Clive, burst in holding a magazine. “Company is on the cover,” he said, grinning. “Front Page.”

Wanda glanced over. The headline screamed about the incident, ‘Drag Royale Tragedy: Rising Star Lost in Onstage Accident.’

She sighed softly, “Such a waste of talent that one was.”

Clive nodded solemnly. “Terrible thing. But the show must go on.”

Wanda capped the lipstick and set it beside her mirror, “Of course it must,” she agreed. The color bloomed darker on her lips.

Clive’s eyes drifted to the tube. “That’s a beautiful color,” he said absently. “What shade is that?”

Wanda met her own gaze in the mirror and smiled.

“Sugar Plum.”