They say beauty lasts forever. That it exists beyond time. That it softens cruelty and makes the world look past its flaws.

[Nero sits — hunched forward, head bowed, forearms resting on his knees. Slowly, he lifts his gaze — his reflection staring back from a mirror.]

People speak of beauty like it’s something untouchable. Something you can hold onto, as if it could protect you from the world. It draws attention, inspires desire, and promises a life above danger.

But beauty alone doesn’t save you. Behind it are sleepless nights, endless ambition, and the quiet compromises of those who choose applause over conscience.

Behind it is hunger, sacrifice, and the harsh truths no one wants to see.

[He stands, turning to face the camera with a hard, unblinking glare.]

You learned that early, didn’t you, Narcy Doll? In the Slums of Arcadia, beauty wasn’t given. You had to take it. You had to fight for it — and you fought harder than anyone.

Every step you climbed, every spotlight you claimed, it wasn’t just recognition. It was proof that beauty could carry you above the chaos you were born into.

It kept you alive — though never untouched.

[He pivots back toward the glass.]

Then Zeus noticed you. He offered a place by his side, not just as the creator of his image, but as the woman he called his wife. You knew what that meant. The Baron. The Pantheon. Halls where every smile carries a price.

You didn’t escape danger, you just wore it differently — wrapped up in silk and acclaim.

[Nero tilts his head upward with a faint shake.]

I know because I witnessed it too. I saw beauty become currency in the Pantheon — traded for obedience, loyalty, and silence. You survived the trials of your childhood only to walk into a greater one, where the life you built for yourself was never truly your own.

You believed beauty made you untouchable, but it branded you instead. The gowns, the praise, the attention — they were never yours. They belong to Zeus, where every mirror reflects not freedom but control.

[His fingers slide across the mirror’s surface — tracing the reflection.]

I once believed in that world. I wore its banners. I fought for its rules and convinced myself there was justice there.

[Without warning, he drives his gauntlet into the glass — sending shards scattering like a burst of stars.]

But I broke away. I saw what real beauty is. Not in gilded halls or applause. Not in silk or mirrors.

True beauty is freedom. It is the courage to stand beyond those who would own you.

It is the power to survive without selling yourself.

[He turns, stepping toward the camera — broken fragments crunching beneath each step.]

You tell yourself your reflection is beauty? That you’ve won? But I see through it.

[Crunch.]

I see the hollowness behind every smile. The fear hidden beneath every step.

[Crunch.]

You don’t shine, Narcissa. You fragmentise.

[Crunch.]

And when the world finally sees you as I do, it won’t see your beauty, Doll…

[Nero stops dead.]

It will only see the horror you’ve become.

[He moves, vanishing off-frame — leaving only silence and splintered glass.]