Vivian blinked—
and the laughter hit her like a slap.
Not warm laughter. Not the kind that spills from shared delight.
This was mean. Sharp. Serrated. The kind of sound that cuts through skin, through confidence, through memory.
She stood beneath blistering lights at a mic stand. The heat poured down, unrelenting. Her dress clung to her back, soaked through with sweat. The air reeked of over-applied foundation, spilled liquor, and something fouler—performance sharpened into cruelty.
Behind her: a raised dais lined with plush velvet chairs. Water bottles. Cue cards. Familiar faces.
A roast.
Of course.
Vivian had done roasts before. She knew their rhythm, the subtle violence dressed in timing and punchlines. This setup was typical—heavy with hierarchy, desperation, ego. Comedians perched like vultures, ready to outwit and outwound.
But this wasn't a flashback. This wasn't memory.
It was now.
And in the hot seat—center stage, slouched in a high-backed throne, hair veiling her face—sat Eden Gray.
Vivian's throat closed up.
None of the other comics moved. They looked like wax mannequins of people she used to tour with. Their expressions were frozen, grinning too wide, teeth gleaming like they'd been filed down. Lifelike. But wrong.
Then the MC's voice buzzed from overhead, dry and gleeful:
"Next up, the Queen of Cutting Remarks—Vivian Marquez! Try not to draw too much blood."
Applause exploded around her. Eager. Ravenous.
Vivian stepped to the mic.
Somehow, she was already holding cue cards. She hadn't picked them up. Didn't remember walking over.
They felt heavy in her hands. Sticky.
She glanced down at the first card.
"Vivian's Set – ROAST OF EDEN GRAY"
She looked up.
Eden hadn't moved. Still slouched, hair falling over her face. Still silent.
"Come on!" someone in the crowd jeered. "Make her cry again!"
More laughter. Sharp as broken glass.
Vivian's hands trembled.
She looked down at the first joke.
"Eden's comedy is like a car crash—except people actually enjoy a car crash."
She winced.
No.
Her lips parted to object—
But her mouth moved on its own.
The joke slipped out.
The crowd roared.
Vivian gasped like she'd been hit. She hadn't meant to say it. It had forced itself from her mouth, hijacking her body like a puppet string yanked hard.
She turned to Eden.
A thin red line traced down Eden's arm.
Fresh.
Bleeding.
"No," Vivian whispered. "No, I'm not doing this—"
But the cards flipped themselves.
Another joke surged up her throat.
"You've gotta admire Eden—she's like a broken vending machine. You keep putting your heart in, and she gives you nothing."
The audience howled.
More laughter. Louder. Crueler.
Vivian tried to let go of the mic. Her hand refused. Frozen to it.
She wanted to stop. Wanted to scream. But her voice betrayed her again.
Another joke launched. Another red slash bloomed on Eden's skin.
She was bleeding in silence. Not fighting. Not flinching. Just sitting there, letting it happen.
The crowd's faces twisted. Leering. Gleaming. Predatory. Some of them clutched old flyers. Others waved Eden's headshots like flags. One woman held a gleaming knife, tapping it rhythmically against her palm.
Vivian snapped.
She crumpled the cue cards and hurled them aside. "SHUT UP!" she screamed. "You don't get to laugh! That's not what this is!"
The crowd just laughed harder.
Their faces flickered. Becoming less human with every cheer.
Vivian turned back to Eden.
She ran to her. Dropped to her knees beside the throne. "Please," she whispered, grabbing Eden's hand. "Say something. Say anything."
Eden raised her head.
Her face was pale. Her eyes—too calm. Too clear. Like someone already dead and past caring.
"I asked you to go easy," Eden said softly. "You said, 'It's a roast, babe. You'll survive.'"
Vivian froze.
She had said that.
She meant it like encouragement. A joke. Something to soothe the nerves.
But she hadn't noticed how brittle Eden already was. How much she'd needed someone to see her.
"You begged them to laugh at me," Eden continued. "And they did."
"I wanted you to look strong," Vivian whispered. "I thought if they laughed with you—even if it hurt—you'd be okay."
Eden tilted her head, the blood from her arm dripping quietly onto the velvet.
"Why'd you make me the punchline?"
Vivian's hands shook.
She looked down at them. Then met Eden's gaze.
"I was jealous," she said. "You were real. You didn't need polish. Or prep. You just walked onstage and people listened. I've spent my whole career earning an ounce of that kind of presence. You breathed and the room leaned in."
The laughter behind them stopped.
Dead silence.
Vivian turned.
The dais was empty. The crowd—gone.
But in Eden's chair now sat Vivian's trophies.
All of them.
Lined up in perfect order. Comedy festivals. Critic's Choice. Late-night showcases. Talk show spots. Shiny little accolades.
Her name gleamed in false gold:
"Best Setup."
"Sharpest Bite."
"Queen of the Room."
They glinted under the spotlight like teeth pulled from something still living.
Then Eden's voice, disembodied now:
"Is it enough?"
Vivian walked toward the pedestal.
She picked up the first trophy.
It pulsed in her hands. Warm. Alive.
She dropped it.
It didn't clink.
It thudded—wet, like a lump of raw meat.
She grabbed another and threw it against the stage.
It shattered—but bled where it broke.
Vivian stumbled back.
These weren't trophies.
They were wounds.
On Eden. On herself.
She grabbed another. And another. Throwing them, screaming as she hurled them into the walls, the floor, the darkness. The stage was soaked now. Dripping. Breathing.
The laughter tried to return—but it was stuttering now. Uncertain.
"Stop clapping for this!" Vivian shouted at the shadows. "This isn't comedy. This is cowardice dressed up in punchlines!"
The final award sat heavy in her hand.
It read:
"For Turning Pain Into Profit."
She stared at it.
Then knelt.
Set it on the stage.
And struck a match.
The flames licked at it eagerly. The others caught too—hungry for the burn. Fire climbed the dais, swallowing accolades, disfiguring the symbols of success until they meant nothing.
The laughter stopped.
The shadows disintegrated.
Ash drifted where monsters once sat.
Vivian stood in the glowing coals of her own ambition, sweating, trembling, free.
At the center of the flames, untouched, was Eden's notebook.
Charred at the edges. But real.
Vivian stepped forward, reached into the heat, and pulled it free.
The cover was warm. Familiar.
She opened it.
Most pages were blank.
Except one.
A single line in Eden's unmistakable scrawl:
"You were always funniest when you meant it."
The flames died.
The lights dimmed.
A door appeared at the back of the stage. Wood. Solid. Ordinary.
Vivian, still clutching the notebook, walked toward it.
She didn't look back.