Final Cut

The auditions dragged on.

What had once been a buzzing circus of chaotic talent now felt like a talent graveyard—too polished, too scripted, and somehow not insane enough to trend. The hunt for the final contestant had turned into a grim standoff between standards and desperation.

Producer Marshall Fate had already rejected a handful of decent-enough hopefuls with sculpted jawlines or tragic backstories. None of them, he insisted, had “main character energy.” Whatever that meant.

Victor wasn’t losing patience on the other hand, he just enjoyed the empowering feeling he had.

“Oooh, look at our dear producer~,” he purred with mock sweetness. “Wasn’t it just last week he scolded me for taking too many applicants? And yet here we are—short one contestant. Oh nooo, what to do, what to do…”

“If this next one isn’t marketable, I swear to God, you’re going in as the fifth contestant!” Marshall snapped, hurling his clipboard onto the floor.

The studio doors flew open.

And in walked a boy so average-looking it felt like someone had typed “default male protagonist” into a character generator. Brown hair, hoodie, sneakers. He looked like he’d either just woken up or never planned to.

But… he wasn’t alone.

Clinging to his arm like the apocalypse was hiding in the lighting rig above, an older woman marched beside him—head high, posture fierce, a cross between an overbearing mother and a stage mom who’d never gotten her spotlight.

Madam of Maybes didn’t miss a beat. She stood, arms spread like a televangelist mid-miracle.

“You!” she boomed. “This must be fate itself at play! To arrive as the final contestant and no doubt the most powerful of them all!”

Marshall pinched the bridge of his nose. “What exactly are you doing?”

“We have no other choice,” Madam muttered out of the side of her mouth. “Also, I have other plans after this. Let’s wrap up.”

The woman holding the boy’s arm stepped forward with theatrical grace.

“Sorry, but my son isn’t very good with words,” she declared. “So I’ll speak on his behalf.”

“I can talk just fine,” the boy muttered, trying to peel her off without causing a scene.

Victor leaned forward, intrigued. “And what’s your name, young warrior?”

The woman beamed. “His name is Jastin Presley. And I’m Mrs. Presley.”

“Who the hell still introduces themselves as Mrs. anything?” Madam raised one painted eyebrow but then she raised her voice again. “Do you think a Gypsy King candidate can’t speak for himself?”

“I don’t want to be a Gypsy King,” Jastin snapped. “I’m not even a gypsy!”

His mother gasped like someone had slapped her with a holy book.

“He is a gypsy,” she insisted, pressing a hand to her chest. “His eyes might be blue and his skin paler than mine, but I am his mother, a gypsy. His father is a gypsy. Everyone in our family is a gypsy. Even our dog barks with an accent!”

“No! I’m white!” Jastin barked. “And I don’t care about your fake crown or your weird reality show! I only care about Stella!”

Victor tilted his head, amused. “So that’s your motivation…”

The boy was clearly Romani but he continued to fight for his lie.

Mrs. Presley sniffed. “How would your grandfather feel hearing you deny your own roots?”

“I don’t care!” Jastin folded his arms like a sulking child.

The mother turned to the judges, palms out in earnest appeal. “Please, just take him. He’s a fine boy. Hasn’t even been arrested…” she added proudly, as if that were some extraordinary feat.

There was a long, awkward pause.

Madam of Maybes narrowed her eyes and placed her fingertips on her crystal ball.

The orb flickered. Dimmed. Then sparked slightly—less like a prophecy and more like a dying lightbulb.

“My crystal ball is very disappointed in you, young boy,” she intoned gravely. “You are ashamed to be Romani. You reject your fate.”

She snapped her hand back dramatically like the orb had burned her.

“I, Madam of Maybes, hereby declare you…” She grabbed the Accepted paddle with relish, eyes gleaming. “The White Gypsy! May this ridiculous title race correct the impurities in your heart!”

She smacked the paddle down on the table with theatrical finality.

“Accepted!”

***

And just like that, the casting phase of Gypsy King was complete. Five finalists. One crown. Zero clarity.

The editing crew slashed together the footage, dumped a glittery soundtrack over it, and began drip-feeding it to the Velgravian public—one painfully sanitized episode at a time.

At home, Fifty watched the show with his parents. His thumb never stopped texting.

“Khan’s shirt is illegal. That collar needs therapy.”

“You look cute tho.” Stella responded.

The screen glowed. Faces flashed. Dialogue sputtered through the speakers like warmed-over leftovers. And yet, when the credits rolled, nobody in the Mirga household said a word.

No joy. No disgust. Just the mutual silence of collective mediocrity.

The next episode landed. Then another. The mood turned from indifferent to undeniable.

The ratings plummeted. Viewership collapsed faster than a pop-up tent in a windstorm. Internet threads mocked the show’s pacing. Reaction channels gave up halfway through reviews. The magic had fizzled. And the producer knew it.

Inside the cavernous, echo-prone studio where the auditions had once been chaotic and raw, Producer Marshall Fate called an emergency meeting. Present were the judges—Victor, Madam of Maybes— Stella, the five finalists: Fifty, Gypsy Khan, Jastin Presley, Billie Timberfake (children in tow), and Elvys Vajda, whose beard looked better-groomed than the plot so far.

Khan glared across the room at Fifty with his trademark “brooding alpha” stare.

Fifty, however, had zero interest in pissing contests today. His focus was somewhere between Stella’s shoulder and her smile.

Speaking of Stella, she stood at the edge of the group, arms folded, unreadable. Jastin Presley stared at her like she was the sun and he was ready to go blind.

Billie bounced her youngest boy on her hip while the older one spun in slow, sugar-induced circles. Victor watched them, already inserting himself as the father of the family in his mind.

Elvys groomed his beard in stoic silence, probably preparing to drop a one-liner that nobody would be sure was a joke or an ancient proverb.

Marshall Fate cleared his throat and tapped a clipboard against his palm.

“The show’s being cancelled.”

Khan blinked. “More, don’t joke around.”

Fate shook his head. “The network pulled the plug. Said the costs are too high, and frankly, no one’s watching. They’re not even hate-watching.”

A wave of stunned silence passed over the room like a bad smell.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Fifty asked, his voice level but alert.

Madam of Maybes crossed her arms like a disappointed school principal. Stella tilted her head slightly, curious but cautious.

“No need to panic.” Fate said, waving his hand. “We got a call. An anonymous investor stepped in and he wants to fund the show... but under some strict conditions.”

Stella perked up. “So it’s saved?”

“For now.” Fate glanced down at the paper in his hands, like he was still trying to process it himself. “But the investor wants a complete overhaul of the concept. He says the problem isn’t the contestants. It’s the format.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jastin frowned, and even Billie stopped bouncing her toddler.

“It means,” Fate said, voice dry, “he doesn’t want a polished competition anymore. No staged challenges, no rehearsed dialogues.”

Madam of Maybes narrowed her eyes. “Then what, exactly, are we filming?”

Fate looked up.

“He wants everything. Your actual lives. The meals. The messes. The fights. The breakdowns. Your real selves, completely unfiltered. From this moment forward, Gypsy King is going full reality.”

Chapter 13: END