Gypsy Khan

“No. No-no-no. You can’t be serious.”

Fifty stood dead center in Victor’s office, pointing one shaking finger at the gnarled creature seated smugly in the guest chair. The fortune-teller—Madam of Maybes, now sporting a new shawl that looked like it had fought off moths in a civil war—smiled like someone who knew where your missing socks were and would never tell.

“You hired the human phishing email to judge me?! What, the fortune-scamming wasn’t profitable anymore?”

“Yeah, I kinda had to switch career paths for a whi-, hey! Don’t talk about me like that!”

Victor didn’t even look up from his phone. “She volunteered,” he said casually. “Or, better said, she threatened to curse us if we didn’t let her. But honestly? If I wanted, I could’ve found someone way worse.”

Fifty’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out but the sound of his future crumbling.

From behind the office door came a voice so light and smug it might’ve floated in on a breeze of sarcasm. “Oh, you poor thing. What did you do to this lovely older woman that she hates you so much? How are you going to reach the title now? My, my.”

Fifty spun around. Stella was already halfway through the door, mask tucked under her chin, eyes sparkling with delight at his misfortune.

“How are you always here when something goes wrong?!” he groaned.

“Call it intuition,” she said, shrugging like the universe had her on retainer for drama.

Fifty turned to the wall and thunked his forehead against it. Once. Twice. “I refuse,” he muttered between thuds, “to go out in round one because of Babble-Yaga! I’ll prove I have the right to sit!”

“You call me that again,” Madam of Maybes hissed, her voice suddenly sharp, “and I’ll curse your bloodline to sprout inward-growing toenails until the end of Velgravia’s calendar.”

Victor beamed like a man watching two feral cats flirt. “Great chemistry. Gold-tier TV. Can you imagine the episode titles?”

“Is this why you called me here?” Fifty turned back to Victor, arms spread. “To make fun of me? Not that I don’t get it—I mean, it is kind of epic. But a heads-up would’ve been nice.”

Victor leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against his chin. “Actually… I called you here to tell you that you don’t have to compete anymore.”

The room fell still. Even Madam of Maybes paused mid-smirk.

“We’ve got more than enough contestants now,” Victor added. “So, you’re off the hook. No need to go through with any of this.”

From across the room, Stella sucked in a breath like she’d just watched a character get killed off mid-season. Her posture stiffened, her smile faded.

Fifty blinked. “What?”

“I mean it,” Victor said. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Oh, I see.” Fifty laughed once, hollow and dramatic. “You think I did all this for you? Or for her?”

He pointed at Victor. Then at Stella. She raised her hands innocently.

“You think I wanted to be the Gypsy King to save her from her family or save you from your inevitable low ratings? I told you what I wanted. I want to sit.”

Madam of Maybes raised a brow. “You want to what?”

“To sit,” Fifty said, like it was sacred scripture. “On a stage. On a throne. On any available bench. All the time. That’s the dream. And after today, I reaffirmed another dream of mine.”

Victor frowned. “Another one?”

“Yes,” Fifty said solemnly. “And let me get another one while I’m at it. To absolutely obliterate Babble-Yaga in this competition and prove I can win even with her praying for my downfall.”

Madam of Maybes stood slowly, her shawl flapping like the sails of a cursed ship. “You dare challenge the wisdom of fate?”

“I dare everything. Let’s make this battle as legendary as medieval times! You surely remember them, right?”

“You shall not pass through me, brat!” she snapped, jabbing a finger at him.

Victor sipped his coffee, completely unbothered.

Stella crossed her arms, watching Fifty with something unreadable in her eyes—equal parts worry and admiration.

***

A week passed. The posters faded. The buzz didn’t.

The day of the preliminary auditions had arrived, and with it, a small army of hopefuls flooded the Velgravia TV headquarters like it was a lottery office on payday. Men of every shape, accent, and grooming philosophy queued up in the grand hall. Each wore a number pinned to their shirt like they were about to run a marathon. But the only finish line was a throne they had no idea how to reach.

Fifty adjusted the number 102 badge pinned to his chest and sighed. Around him, the room buzzed with nervous chatter, the occasional bout of posturing, and way too much cologne.

Some were serious. Some were shirtless. Some were clearly there to be seen and memed. But all of them had one thing in common: they wanted something.

The title. The money. The girl.

The public thought Stella Kralova was the prize. Her porcelain face now adorned posters, teasers, and Victor's limited-edition tea mug. But what the public didn’t know was that the real prize sat in a locked account somewhere far away—one million Velgravian crowns.

Stella, per her contract, was only required to smile for photos and not sue anybody.

As the first contestant was called into the audition studio, a short buzz tickled Fifty's jeans pocket. A text.

Fifty groaned, stood up, and made his way upstairs. When he pushed open the door to 3B, he found her exactly how he suspected: lounging across a couch like a royal cat, phone in hand, watching the live stream of the auditions projected onto a large flat-screen.

"Why'd you call me here?" he asked, already flopping down at the other end of the couch.

"Technically, I texted you," she replied without looking up. "You could've said no. But here you are. Reality Show and Chill. Just the two of us. Makes your heart race, doesn’t it?"

"Stop being gross," Fifty muttered.

She flicked her foot toward him, casually planting it next to his thigh. He side-eyed it, then her, then back at her toes.

"Do you have a foot fetish?"

"Maybe."

"At least you're honest. Now hush. First contestant's up."

The screen showed a tall, confident man stepping into the audition studio. He wore a tight tank top, jeans, and a grin that could blind satellites. His beard was suspiciously perfect. Somewhere, barbers wept in envy.

Inside the audition room, three people sat at a long table: Victor, trying to look neutral; Marshall Fate, trying not to check his emails; and, in the center like an aging deity, Madam of Maybes herself.

She made a show of it. Eyes closed. Fingers spread like antennae. Her hands floated over a glowing crystal ball that looked like it had been bought during Halloween clearance.

“Ah, yes,” she breathed. “This young snack—man... this man carries a royal aura. He has a leader’s heart. The ancestors sing through his follicles!”

Victor coughed. Marshall reached under the table and gave her shin a subtle kick.

The signal.

Despite her theatrics, she was not the one actually making the decisions. That privilege belonged to the producers, who ran this game like puppeteers with a spreadsheet.

Still, she pretended to wipe away a tear. "No. I’m sorry. He must leave us."

The contestant looked stunned. So did the viewers. But the system had spoken.

"That guy was hot. I don't blame her," Stella commented, curling one leg underneath her.

Fifty rubbed his temple. "Am I just here so you don't feel lonely?"

"Eighty percent, yes."

"And the other twenty?"

She glanced at him sideways, smirked. "Girl's secret."

Fifty groaned and sank deeper into the couch cushions like he hoped they’d swallow him whole. Stella’s toes wiggled nearby—annoyingly carefree—but he stayed. He watched.

Contestant after contestant entered the studio on-screen, each with wide eyes and inflated dreams. A few stammered through heartfelt speeches. One attempted a dance routine that ended with a twisted ankle and a stretcher. Another tried singing and made the boom mic visibly recoil. Madam of Maybes alternated between amused eye-rolls and overly dramatic predictions, waving her hands above the crystal ball like she was summoning spirits—and ratings.

Fifty was about to tune out again when the next contestant entered the studio. The air in the room shifted.

The man strolled in like the stage was his and had always been. He wore a black leather jacket embedded with sharp silver spikes that gleamed under the studio lights. His shoes matched—black and lethal. A T-shirt under his open jacket read in bold metallic letters: Baro Rai.

Black sunglasses sat unapologetically on his face, even though there was no sun in the studio. His walk wasn’t just confident—it was imperial.

Both Victor and Madam of Maybes inhaled sharply, suddenly very alert. Even Stella straightened her back like a cat sensing a rival.

Marshall, however, remained blissfully unaware, sipping from his branded coffee mug and flipping through a clipboard. “Alright,” he said casually, “Who are you? Introduce yourself nicely.”

The man tilted his chin slightly.

“My name,” he growled, voice deep and dangerous, “is Michael Merkury, you little dickie. But ignorant gádže like you probably know me under my stage name: Gypsy Khan.”

Victor nearly dropped his tablet. Madam of Maybes froze mid-crystal stroke.

Fifty launched off the couch like he’d been tasered. “No way—no freakin’ way! What’s he doing here?!”

Stella’s eyebrows arched in amusement. “Now this just got interesting.”

Victor fumbled with his words. “Producer…” he whispered to Marshall. “This guy… he’s not just some contestant. He’s the Michael Merkury. The most famous rapper in all of Velgravia.”

Madam of Maybes nodded, her voice full of reverence for once. “This čhávo has been whispered about in Romani circles for years now. He is said to be the closest man to being the next Gypsy King!”

“Oh?” Marshall sat up straighter, finally catching on. “So, Mr. Merkury, what made you apply to a reality show of all things?”

Michael slowly turned his gaze toward him. The room felt ten degrees colder.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper soaked in disdain. “It’s a gypsy thing.”

Chapter 5: END