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YourHighnessofViolence · (04-28-2026)

The camera doesn’t cut in clean.

It flickers.

Pink static… soft at first… like glitter drifting through a dead signal.

Then it sharpens.

Jenny Myst sits cross-legged on a throne that looks like it was stolen from a dollhouse and modeled to fit a human. One heel dangles lazily off her foot, swinging… tapping… tapping… tapping against the armrest like a countdown.
Because it was.

She doesn’t smile.

Not yet.

Her head tilts.

“Six… times six…”

A pause.

She exhales through her nose, almost amused.

“That’s thirty-six…”

Her fingers tap together, slow… deliberate.

“…funny how the devil never shows up all at once."

The static doesn’t just fade—it curdles. That pink glow rots into bruised violet, pulsing with the tip-tapping of Jenny’s heel. She rests her chin in her palm and stares at the camera, her eyes bored and cold—something between a housecat and a lion, watching a moth fry itself on a fluorescent bulb.

Slowly, she stands. She moves around her throne, light-footed, like none of this matters anymore, which is about right. It stopped mattering long before now. She drags a finger in the air, sketching invisible circles around the dollhouse chair.

You want to know why thirty-six is such a joke? It's average. It’s the “almost.” Thirty-six inches in a yard—but a yard's nothing close to a mile. It’s just enough distance to see what you want, not enough to reach it. Thirty-six keys on a toy piano—sure, you can play a lullaby, but you’ll never write a symphony.

People have plenty to say about Jenny. For years. And? She doesn’t care. She knows exactly who she is, what she’s done, and what she’s still planning on doing. She picked Anarchy. It was her choice—a fresh game board, another world for her to corner and conquer.

XXXVI is only here because everywhere else showed him the door.

"Look at you. Hiding in your own shadow for so long, you forgot the only thing interesting about a shadow is what's behind it. That mask? It’s cute, honestly. You’ve got a whole ‘ritual sacrifice’ vibe going, but who are you trying to scare? I'm not fooled. That mask isn’t for me—it’s for you. Gives you a little personality, maybe covers up the fact that you haven’t got one behind all the posturing. Everything about you is a performance, and you’re barely gripping the microphone.

You call yourself a mystery? A number? I’ve seen scarier costumes in the discount bin the day after Halloween. You’re trying so hard to be a monster under the bed, but the thing is...I built that bed, and honestly, I’m bored already. Want to know why I’m here in Anarchy? I’ve done everything else. I’m the household name nobody wants to admit they talk about. You’re not even a household name in your own apartment. Tell me, do you practice all your little poses in the mirror? Keep the lights off, mutter nonsense to yourself, crack that ‘vessel’ angle just right to look poetic? Do you spend hours in the dark, making sure your 'vessel' looks just 'broken' enough to be poetic? It’s pathetic. You’re a performance artist in a world of killers. You think the darkness is your ally because you painted it on your skin, but I was born in the rooms you’re too afraid to even dream about. I knew coming to Anarchy they may softball some jobbers at me, I just didn't have any idea it would be you."

[Image: burn.png]

She drags a finger across the dollhouse, smirk curling. A lighter clicks. The flame jumps, the dollhouse catches, and the smell of burning plastic stings the air.

“He’s just a ghost haunting a house I’m already burning down,” Jenny purrs, watching melted windows sag and drip. “XXXVI isn’t a threat; he’s just math. And I’ve always been better at subtraction.” She walks past the smoldering wreck, leaving the “Almost King” to choke in her smoke.

A clock ticks backwards, slow and steady, racking up the numbers.

“Nine... ten...” Jenny’s voice is sing-song, each number rolling with the firelight in her eyes. “Eleven... twelve…”

The plastic weeps black, roofs collapse, and in the very middle, a single doll—marked with a tiny, sloppy mask just like XXXVI’s—waits in its fake parlor. Flames lick at its feet. The mask warps, bubbling up, silent and pleading.

“Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…”

The fire bites into its throat.

“Thirty-five.”

Jenny freezes. The clock hits thirty-six. That doll—in its little crown of orange—collapses into ash, the mask dead-black and empty. Jenny doesn’t move to save it. She just watches the “Almost King” disappear.

[Image: mask-burn.png]

“You’re a ghost story told by people who never saw anything real. You’re a ghost story told by people who have never actually seen a ghost. You’re the 'monster' for the people who want to feel edgy at the merch table. But look at me, XXXVI. Do I look like I believe a single second of this little avant-garde nightmare you’re staging?"

The difference between us is simple. When people look at you, they wonder who is under the mask. They expect disappointment. That tracks.

When they look at me, they wonder what I’m going to do to them next. I am the reality that makes your little fantasy feel like a bedtime story. Then, I will beat Miss Fury and add another shiny thing to my repertoire, while you? You'll just go back to being the curtain jerker XWF needs to fill payroll quotas.

Go ahead, keep your hood up. It saves me the trouble of looking at the desperation in your eyes when you realize that all the face paint in the world can’t mask the fact that you’re just another boy playing dress-up in a world owned by a Queen."

The camera starts howling, that pink static roaring in again. Jenny’s silhouette gets swallowed, but her heel keeps swinging, tap tap tapping—

Thirty-five.

Thirty-six.

Nothing but black.

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