ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪

ᅠ 【 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐈𝐑 . . . 】 Good evening, my most 𝓼𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝓼𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 on this 𝓐𝐥𝐥 𝓗𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰’𝐬 𝓔𝐯𝐞.ᐟ Your 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 host is here once more to haunt the airwaves with 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 to delight you all. ﹝𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠, 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔﹞ 𝐴ℎ, such a magnificent holiday: 𝓗𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧. A night devoted to 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ desires and hair-raising 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫. Now, being denizens of 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥, such is any old day down here, is it not.ᐣ ﹝𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑠ℎ 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐﹞ Brimstone, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 … The thrill of inflicting true 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓.ᐟ A 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 upon which we feast, gorge ourselves from dawn to dusk. But why not add a touch of tradition to this night.ᐣ ﹝𝑤𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑙𝑒, 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔﹞ Entrails make 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 garlands, you know.ᐟ And 𝓒𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝓣𝐨𝐰𝐧 prepares quite the 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 arrangement of confections for the occasion. Might 𝓘 recommend the candied eyeballs.ᐣ 𝑂ℎ, and why not participate in the timeless craft of pumpkin carving.ᐣ 𝐒𝐤𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐬 make excellent jack-o-lanterns, speaking from experience. 𝐴ℎ𝑎ℎ𝑎.ᐟ ﹝𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘﹞ Well, in whatever manner your soul savors this holiday, allow me, your 𝓱𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝓱𝐨𝐬𝐭, to set the mood. A classic for all you 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑚 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 to scare the night away.ᐟ Pleasant 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬, my dear listeners … ﹝❛ Haunted House Blues ❜ 𝑏𝑦 𝓑𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐞 𝓢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑠﹞ 【 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐀𝐈𝐑 . . . 】 ᅠ

ᅠ ❝ 𝐴𝑤, so easily frightened, 𝓥𝐨𝐱.ᐣ I'd consider it a 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, were it not such a simple feat to send you 𝑐𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝓗𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 must be quite terrifying for 𝔂𝐨𝐮, indeed.ᐟ ❞ ᅠ

ᅠ ╰› Banned from decorating the hotel for 𝓗𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 due to materials being too ... 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐. ᅠ

ᅠ ❝ 𝑂ℎ, how rude of me.ᐟ Allow me to offer one more 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞. ❞ ᅠ

⠀ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 at the 𝓻𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 like: ⠀

void.xn--jm9e the emotional whiplash of today, going from depressed about ao3 being down to thrilled because my roommate is going to RICC and said they’d snag an autograph from amir for me 🫨

ᅠ 𝐴𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 … A courteous incline of his head offered in the wake of the producer’s departure, blissful reprieve from such incessant chatter. Intoxicated and babbling, the radio star found little substance to his continued company. At the very least, nothing of which to further his 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒̀𝑟𝑒-𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒́𝑒 beyond excess motivation. 𝓡𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞 would die. Not tonight, but in due time. Until such an opportunity presented itself, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 would play the humble role of radio host. Grip relinquished, a glimmer of 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 simmered behind gilded spectacles. 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑠ℎ though it may be, he did so relish the initiation to retreat on 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭’𝐬 part. An inconsequential win, but a win nonetheless. Digits gave a subtle, though deliberate brush against his pant leg — a means to expel whatever industrialized 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐇 the man seemed to emanate. A brow arched, amused snort slipping free at the implications made by the media personality. It was evident the man understood little of the fine art of 𝓻𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨. ❝ Why, is that what your 𝑠𝑜-𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 studios are like.ᐣ Tripping hazards and 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐬 abound.ᐣ Duly noted. Rest assured, 𝓻𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒐 poses no such risks, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑡 in the simplicity of its design. ❞ Verbal sparring, a 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 pastime of the radio host. Most in 𝓝𝐞𝐰 𝓞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 knew better than to challenge the quick-witted young star. Those foolish enough to attempt oft resorted to distasteful slurs, inevitably 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, pulling at straws. Yet this merger posed a new crowd, unfamiliar with the sharp tongue he possessed. Refreshing, a renewed opportunity to watch men 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒎 beneath the whip of his words. And 𝑦𝑒𝑡 … This 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧 did not appear so eager to bend. Curious, gaze peered down that slender nose in careful observation as the man worked the room. All blinding smiles and compulsory charisma to a crowd too idiotic to recognize a blatant 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞. The late night host could very well 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓 the room while grinning and not a guest would be the wiser. Dare he say, it was almost impressive. 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡. 𝑂ℎ, ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑔𝑜 … A roll of umber hues, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 near-failed to contain a bark of amusement as 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 claimed the spotlight. Pitiable in his insatiable 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 for attention, a craving the radio host did not share. True, to be acknowledged for his skills, to be 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 was a most pleasurable position to hold. Yet he would not flaunt himself like a peacock in desperation. 𝐃𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 would not allow such unseemly behavior. Priorities begged his energy be diverted elsewhere. This evening was intended neither for merriment nor camaraderie, but rather assessing the 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞. Determining potential risks and loose ends to be tied before his career unraveled in their wake. Shmoozing and frivolity were distractions 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 could not afford. Naturally, one could not simply meld into the 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 and flee this sham of a celebration either. Thus when approached once more, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 ensured that dashing smile was expertly maintained. Precise and 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, the gentleman before him — some critic in the industry — folded as quick as a newspaper. Pliable and easily impressed, merely a fraction of the host’s attention was mandated to maintain the conversation, 𝑣𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑑 though it may be. ❝ Quite right.ᐟ The untapped potential between radio and television is monumental, to say the least. It’s quite the 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫 to be included in this historic union. ❞ 𝑳𝒊𝒆𝒔, all of it — a drip of sweet 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 from plush lips which the idiot drank deeply nonetheless. 𝑇𝑜𝑜 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦, there was hardly entertainment to be found amongst such mindless prey, unlike his prior amusement. As if on cue, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 sensed a shift just behind. Grin curling upward to brush something more 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞, senses prickling to the 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑤𝑖𝑟𝑒 of a man humming at his side. Leisurely, the radio star rolled his gaze to clash once more with those mismatched eyes. ❝ 𝓜𝐫. 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧 … How 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑓𝑢𝑙 for you to grace us with your presence again. Had your fill of idle chitchat.ᐣ ❞ Tone a pleasant 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑟, alluding nothing to the 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦 beneath. While not the forefront of the threat this unification posed, 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 was certainly not spared blame. 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 bled from his person like a smog, evident down to his very posture. The man carried himself as one might in a valiant march to battle, and while the target may not solely be upon 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝑛𝑜𝑤, who was to say when.ᐣ Inevitably, two figureheads in their art surely could not coexist peacefully. A future mark, perhaps.ᐣ One to monitor at the very least — see what made the man tick behind the mask of 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. Lips cupped crystal to drain the last dregs of champagne, tongue dragging 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 to savor the flavor. 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 dismissed the critic with a wave of his hand and well-placed 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎; blunt, though not entirely rude. Turning fully to 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, he pressed upon the man’s personal bubble with a 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇 grin. Close enough to exchange a muted word, yet far from improper. ❝ What say 𝔂𝐨𝐮 to some fresh air.ᐣ I’d imagine the southern humidity is rather 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 to your 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒 northern constitution in such a crammed little hall. ❞ ᅠ

ᅠ Time ticked on in measured beats, 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 and controlled — folding inward upon the hall’s occupants. A quiet 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, just shy of suffocating which seemed to roll off the overlord with little intent. Whether by 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑-𝑠𝑜𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑑 reputation or simply raw 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑, an imbalance was evident. However, the stag was not one to flex his claws without purpose, or at least something to gain. Rather now, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 stood simply as a humble hotelier, hostility of his more prominent title set aside … 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒚. Amusement glinted within that ruby gaze, head tilting as a curious cat might study a frantic bit of prey. A common response among sinners within his presence, one which never grew dull. Decades of calculated kills and strategic deals to establish his hold amongst the highest souls in 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥 — he had earned this, the manifestation of his efforts across the populace. Each subtle shiver and flickering glance a whetstone upon the razor edge of his 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄. Confidence bled at the seams of a polite exterior, a gentleman’s disposition wielded like a knife, clean and precise. ❝ 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒚. This way, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟.ᐟ ❞ Heels clicked a slow, steady rhythm down the winding hall ahead; an easy pace, ensuring his companion was accommodated. 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 simmered low, a tune muted beneath the haze to match the gentle hum behind that ever-present grin. Melody soft and sultry, foxtrot in kind. Tasteful for a quiet evening as the two traversed from the more industrial accommodations to the classier common areas of the hotel. Tension subdued, dulling the more harshly drawn lines of the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 in golden lamplight. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 drew long, warped talons and branching antlers along claret-clad walls. Movement independent of its master, the twisted form 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑒𝑑 low about the young ram. Not quite a 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 — not without provocation — but undeniably inquisitive. ﹝𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑓𝑡﹞ ❝ 𝑂ℎ.ᐣ A 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫, are you.ᐣ How 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑓𝑢𝑙, I do appreciate a good sense of 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 in entertainment. ❞ Attention diverted fully once more to the sinner, brow arched with intrigue. 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓, as if any in 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥 had a choice when the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 commandeered the airwaves. No, when 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 spoke not a soul had a say in the matter. Whether delicious gossip or gut-wrenching 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒, all of 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥 had no choice but to tune in. ❝ But of course.ᐟ Can’t have my broadcasts be any 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑙. Leave that nonsense to the 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒓 media, reliant on flashy imagery and mindless indulgence to maintain an audience. ❞ ﹝𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘﹞ The two traversed past guest quarters, crossing through the entry hall now void of its carefully executed 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬. Embers burned low in the grand fireplaces, their warm glow glinting off the bottles neatly lined behind the vacant bar. Peace only allotted by the unreasonably late hour settled about the plush upholstery and rich mahogany. 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 strolled down the central staircase, words spoken casually over shoulder. ❝ One must establish their niche here — 𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆 it — if they wish to hold a modicum of 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫. No amount of mimicry or 𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 off the strength of others will garner 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 respect. My advice to 𝔂𝐨𝐮, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟, free for the taking.ᐟ ❞ Rounding the corner, the overlord continued onward to the kitchens situated just off the dining hall. Though guests were not typically allowed beyond, 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 were permitted at the hotelier’s whim. Swinging double doors stood before them, porthole windows displaying merely a peek into the culinary equipment within. At its heart: a long, multileveled island lined with barstools for staff to take five. Crimson claws settled upon the door, a silent swing open to the interior coupled with a gracious bow. ❝ And we have arrived. 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, have a seat. 𝑂ℎ, and while I imagine 𝓘 require no introduction, I do believe I’ve yet to make 𝔂𝐨𝐮𝐫 acquaintance prior … .ᐣ ❞ ᅠ

void.xn--jm9e small joys i find in my writing: sneaking in the occasional cannibal pun 👅

ᅠ 𝑃𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 promises, dolled up with audacity only afforded to the rich and powerful. Words of little worth and even less appeal to the radio host. In one ear, out the other — better drowned beneath the cacophony of surrounding revelry, were it not for his raucous tone. 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 to a fault, 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 understood the system which worked against him, loathsome though it may be. A mechanism so thoroughly integrated into society to keep down sedulous souls such as his. Prejudice and 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 the priority to raw talent. The better part of his youth, dedicated to disarming those defenses with 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎 and pure skill in the face of opposition. Sweat, tears and ﹝𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡﹞ of 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 were shed to claw his way behind that microphone. He would be damned before some frivolous merger stole that achievement away. Secured beneath the 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑙 curl of his lips, bloodlust simmered. Each pleasant placation spewed forth from 𝓜𝐫. 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞 only served fuel to the fire. Unbeknownst, the fool scribed his very 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. No matter the time, no matter the cost, 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 would see to his demise firsthand. ❝ 𝓜𝐫. 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞, you are a 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚, truly.ᐟ ❞ Glass raised in feigned admiration, rim glinting in the warm glow of chandeliers. ❝ Were 𝓘 to have but a 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 of a mind such as yours ... Your foresight knows no peer, I imagine your rivals are already quivering in 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 at the prospects of this unification. ❞ Honeyed praise, enough to preen an overblown ego and lower a guard or two. Play 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 now to lay groundwork for the 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 fun to begin. For beneath the facade of courtesy, keen eyes pinned upon the two men as one might 𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐒 on a chessboard. 𝑩𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒔, the both of them. A poorly staged comedy act, one which within 𝓐𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓 found little humor. Illusions of grandeur and vainglory aside, it was the concept behind the charade which posed a 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭. The barest hint, the 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 chance that he may lose even a moment’s progress made or be pried away from his beloved microphone was real. False promises and camaraderie could not obscure the grim truth: his hard-won career was on the line, 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟. ❝ 𝐴ℎ.ᐟ 𝐘𝐞𝐬, that's the one.ᐟ Rather a 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒏𝒕 fellow, was he not.ᐣ ❞ A slow trail of auburn hues along that overpriced 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑒 which adorned the television star. Finely made, to be sure, but perhaps a bit 𝑡𝑜𝑜 ostentatious and questionable for the southern climate. Eyecatching and 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥, very 𝑎𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑜𝑠 for the picture box. ❝ Well, I’m sure you’ll fill those shoes 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑦. Presuming the set does not try to 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 you in them, 𝑎ℎ𝑎 ℎ𝑎.ᐟ ❞ Digits cinched a 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ tighter, rich bronze pressed within porcelain. A shake of hands toeing the line of socially acceptable length, yet the host did not draw back. Was that a 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞.ᐣ Whispered between words, the barest glint in that contrasting gaze to something 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒. Tone bearing a bit more 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 than anticipated from the northern big shot. 𝑈𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑, but welcome amusement amongst this otherwise tedious reception. ❝ 𝑈𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒, indeed. But you are correct, 𝓻𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 is far too 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 for such oversights to occur. 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 is simply at the command of the voice behind the microphone, not the whims of precarious production equipment. One can paint a 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐥𝐲 scene in words alone, no 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 required.ᐟ ❞ ᅠ