Never Enough

Gypsy Khan stood center stage, arms folded, black leather jacket gleaming like polished armor under the studio lights. His shades, still on despite being indoors, glinted with a cockiness so tangible it could’ve started its own Fik-Fok account.

Victor leaned back in his chair, unsure whether to laugh, run, or ask for an autograph. Marshall Fate looked like a man trying to mentally estimate how many lawsuits one contestant could realistically generate.

“Well,” Fate said, clearing his throat and trying to reclaim the moment, “I may not fully understand your motivation, Mr. Merkury, but Madam here is our Romani representative. I'm sure she can speak to your soul better than I could.”

Madam of Maybes, who had been slowly massaging her crystal ball like it was a small, anxious dog, suddenly perked up. “My crystal ball,” she intoned, voice low and dramatic, “says you were predestined for great things already. So why? Why chase this crown when you’ve already conquered the music world?”

Khan didn’t flinch. He stepped forward slowly, voice rumbling like distant thunder.

“Because I already made history in music. Now I need a new challenge. A new legacy. And this—“ he gestured broadly, taking in the lights, the panel, and the faint smell of stress radiating off Victor, “—this is mine to take. Temeraf!”

Victor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But your father’s white, right? So… you’re only half-Romani?”

The temperature dropped.

Khan tilted his head. Slowly.

Then, with absolute calm, he pulled out his phone, angled it toward himself, and hit record.

“Friends, look at this pathetic loser right here,” he said, pointing the camera at Victor. “I’m not gypsy enough for him. According to this little dickie, I don’t count. Let me know what y’all think about this sick motherfucker over at my socials. DROP DEAD!"

The last part came out in an earsplitting shriek—comically high-pitched, almost cartoonish. It rang through the studio like a battle cry and abruptly cut off as he ended the video. Probably his way of saying goodbye to his followers.

The studio staff stood frozen. Somewhere, a cameraman had stopped breathing. Victor looked like a man trying to remember if his life insurance covered public humiliation.

Then, as casually as if he’d asked for a coffee, Khan turned to the panel and leaned in.

“Hey, I hope that didn’t offend any of you,” he whispered. “Just gotta keep the audience entertained, you know? Didn’t want to be another bland audition.”

Fate blinked. For a moment, he didn’t quite register what had happened. Then his jaw slackened in admiration.

“This guy,” he said slowly, as if naming a rare species. “This guy understands show business better than any of us.”

Victor exhaled in something like relief, although it came out more like defeat. He glanced sideways at Madam of Maybes, who rolled her eyes theatrically.

“Look at this bengoro,” she muttered, unable to hide a smirk. “Fine. Let’s see if you can impress our little princess, Stella.”

Then, with a flourish that would’ve made a game show host proud, she held up a sign previously hidden beneath the desk—a white paddle with bold red letters:

ACCEPTED!

It sparkled under the studio lights. Somewhere, a confetti cannon cried out in jealousy.

The first official contestant had been selected.

Gypsy Khan had barely left the stage when the next wave of excitement rolled in.

Stella, still curled on the breakroom couch like it was her throne, arched an eyebrow at Fifty, who hadn’t moved since Khan dropped his high-pitched battle cry.

“Look who's your rival now,” she said, smirking like she'd just delivered a plot twist.

Fifty rubbed his temples. "Never in a million years did I think I’d face off against Khan. Like, the Khan. I used to stream his tracks while cleaning the booth. This is going to be epic... and probably humiliating. But mostly epic."

After hours of auditions—dancers, singers, students, doctors, one guy who juggled bottles while sobbing about his ex—a break was finally announced. Most contestants fled to the snack tables like vultures in track suits. But Marshall Fate slipped away unnoticed, phone in hand, weaving through the quiet corridors of Velgravia TV headquarters.

There, in a back hallway lined with ancient filing cabinets and a vending machine that owed someone a lawsuit, stood contestant No. 87.

Vajda Elvys Eilish.

The man had the composure of a retired war general and the beard of someone who had personally survived every season of Velgravian winter.

Marshall didn’t bother with a handshake. “You helped us spike nationwide interest with that funeral stunt,” he began, voice low. “So, obviously, we can’t let you fail the audition. You'll pass, no matter what. Just keep it cool on camera.”

Elvys raised one brow and let out a slow, theatrical laugh. "Šun, do you hear this guy, people?" he asked the empty hallway, spreading his arms as if speaking to an unseen audience. "He thinks we’re all his pawns with no backbone."

“That’s not what I—“

“You want to repay me by rigging this? By spitting in the face of every čhavoro out there who dreamed of being here? Some of them had to fight their own parents to get this far. I know them. As a Vajda, I’ve guided them, protected them. And you want me to crush that underfoot?”

Marshall glanced toward the exit, already regretting this.

“Look, it’s just politics. This whole thing is about ratings. It’s not going to be fair anyway. Might as well control it.”

Elvys’s voice dropped, but his words hit like bricks.

“Do you want to know why I came here?”

“Probably because you’re an old geezer gawking at young meat?”

“No. That was all just an act. The truth is, even as a Vajda, I feel like I’m not enough. I gained this rank, so my late parents probably are proud of me, but I have a huge responsibility and I don’t feel like I belong where I landed.”

“A sad backstory incoming?”

“I didn’t come here because I want to win. I joined because I need to prove something—to them. To the Romani kids who look up to me. And to myself. I will not cheat my way there.”

“You think you can change how this world works with a little beard and a speech? Even if you earn it, no one’ll care. The result’s the same.”

Elvys met his gaze squarely.

“No, there’s a difference between a result and an earned result.”

Marshall scoffed. “This is the real world, Mr. Eilish. But be my guest.”

“I was already being that,” Elvys said quietly. Then he turned and walked back down the corridor.

Behind them, a soft shuffle of fabric echoed.

“You’re underestimating the Romani people, my white friend.”

Madam of Maybes appeared from behind a dusty bulletin board, crystal ball clutched like a sacred thermos.

“Have you been eavesdropping?” Marshall asked, half-exasperated.

“Not at all,” she replied, batting her eyes. “My crystal ball foresaw the conversation.”

“He’s a stubborn fool. We’ll pass him anyway.”

“The passive racism in your breath is louder than your words,” she said with a smile. “You expect our people to be fools so you can feel smart. Did you want this whole show to be just drunk uncles and accidental arsonists?”

““Did your crystal ball also tell you that?”

“I’m well aware I’m the one who nominated myself into this role, but that’s because I actually believe in romantic stuff like a fated Gypsy King.”

“You just keep doing whatever I tell you by our under-table-kick system…” Marshall rolled his eyes and walked off, already drafting a memo in his head.

Behind him, she whispered to herself, voice like wind in the circus tent of memory.

“I’ll keep the legacy alive... Mark my words.”

Chapter 6: END