Behind the Curtains

The decision had been made.

Gypsy King would no longer be a glittery, gimmicky spectacle. The show was evolving—if you could call it that—into something raw, invasive, and dangerously real. Less fairytale, more surveillance experiment. And not everyone was thrilled.

In a quiet corner of the studio, the judging trio gathered behind closed doors. No contestants. No Stella. Just Victor, Producer Marshall Fate, and the unpredictable hurricane of silk, sarcasm, and spiritual menace known as Madam of Maybes.

“I won’t be participating in this circus any longer,” she announced, voice calm as thunder before a storm.

Victor blinked. Marshall did not.

“That’s to be expected from the likes of you.” Fate said coolly, not bothering to hide the sneer in his voice. „You got what you wanted and now you leave the responsibility to others.”

“Oh?” Madam’s eyebrow arched. “The likes of me, is it? Careful, Fate. Your racism’s leaking through your ironed cuffs. Again.”

“Please, Madam, I think that Marshall is just upset you got the offer from a competitor’s TV.” Victor tried to play mediator.

“Shut up, brat.” She turned her glare on him, voice rising like steam from a cursed cauldron. “Only a full-blown racist could create a reality show like this! ‘Gypsies but make it marketable’? Please. And you, čoro čororo, are a part of it. It’s better you finally chose whose side are you on.”

Victor’s head sank like a child caught cheating on a moral compass test.

“Coming high and mighty, are we?” Marshall retaliated. “You were the one nominating yourself into this ‘racist show’ as you say it. And now that you’ve been promised a fortune-telling show on another TV, you just pack up your crystal scamballs and go where you see bigger profit!”

Her hand shot out.

She grabbed his collar with the speed of a predator and the calm of a mother disappointed in your life choices. “Scamballs?!” She hissed. “Say it again and I’ll curse your bloodline to stub their pinky toes on every coffee table from here to purgatory!”

Marshall didn’t flinch. He simply swatted her hand away, adjusted his tie, and straightened his spine.

“We don’t need you anymore.”

Madam stormed out with a dramatic flick of her shawl and enough menace to silence the walls.

Victor stayed silent. Marshall didn’t gloat. Not yet.

But the moment the door clicked shut, he grabbed his clipboard and barked toward the assistant waiting outside. “Tell the crew. It’s greenlit. Start filming every single one of them. Home, work, sleep—I don’t care. I want drama, mess, romance, rage. I want their souls in HD.”

And so, one by one, the contestants found cameras outside their homes. Peeking through windows. Hovering at dinner tables. Zooming in on family fights and late-night crying fits.

Elvys Vajda welcomed the filming crew into his settlement with the same energy one might offer to an unexpected weather forecast: neutral and unbothered.

The houses in the background whispered stories of scarcity—cracked plaster, mismatched windows, the tired slouch of old structures—but the streets pulsed with laughter. Barefoot children chased a worn football across the gravel like it was the World Cup final.

Victor and Marshall trailed behind the camera crew, their shoes sticking out like expensive mistakes. Every man they passed greeted Elvys with respectful nods or clasped handshakes—an unspoken acknowledgement that this man, quiet as he was, had long earned their loyalty and respect.

The two disturbers didn’t linger long.

“This is boring,” Marshall said, his voice flat. “Let’s check out Merkury. Maybe something insane’s finally happening.”

When they arrived at the next location, they didn’t have to wait for drama—it came sprinting straight toward them. Or rather, away from them.

Gypsy Khan, aka Michael Merkury, was mid-sprint, zigzagging between parked cars with two scrawny thugs chasing after him.

Victor pulled out his phone. “Hmph. If I wanted to, I could step in and beat both of them.”

“Then go,” Marshall deadpanned.

Victor’s thumb hovered over the record button. “And who would film it?!”

Marshall just inhaled and exhaled slowly.

The chase fizzled out when the thugs gave up and Khan ducked inside his house like a cartoon villain avoiding rent.

Moments later, Victor and Marshall knocked on his door. Khan opened it, hair sweaty, expression full of wounded pride.

“Why were you running from two guys half your weight?” Victor asked, leaning against the doorframe like he hadn’t just filmed the whole thing.

“You wouldn’t understand...” Khan huffed. “It’s a gypsy thing.”

Next stop: the White Gypsy himself.

Jastin Presley was chilling in his room, which looked like it had been preserved from 2007. Posters of faded metal bands covered the walls. CDs lay scattered like relics.

“You see?” Jastin gestured dramatically. “I don’t listen to any Romani songs or bands. I’m an authentic white person!”

“Nobody’s going to believe you anyway,” Marshall replied without looking up from his phone.

The job was getting done, technically. But Victor’s mind was already elsewhere. Or rather, with someone.

When they finally arrived at Billie Presley’s apartment, the first thing that hit them was the smell. Something rich, savory, warm. The kind of aroma that could disarm a burglar. The second thing was the shock—her place was spacious. Spotless. Somehow both cozy and elegant, like a home built out of effort, not inheritance.

Billie was sitting cross-legged on the floor, crayons scattered, her two boys giggling as they scribbled castles and creatures across big sheets of paper. She looked up, startled, then flustered, then apologetic in the way only single mothers and people who think they owe the world something ever are.

“C-Can I make you a coffee, sirs?” she asked, standing quickly and brushing crayon from her jeans. “O-or are you hungry? I-I’ll reheat something... P-please make yourselves at home.”

“No, we won’t stay here for long,” Marshall replied automatically.

But Victor had already crouched beside the boys, picking up a red crayon and starting to draw.

“I’ll play with them while you get the food ready, sweetie!” he said, flashing a grin that made Billie drop a spoon.

She turned on the stove, the scent of paprika and caramelized onions rising from a pot that had clearly been simmering for hours.

Marshall lingered in the doorway, raising an eyebrow. “What are you, the missing father?”

At the same time, on the opposite side of Velgravia, at the edge of Shintawa, the Mirga family just made a huge decision.

“So that makes it a total of… ninety-three people.” Emynem declared, as if reading a weather forecast that could not be changed by mortal hands. He folded his arms. ”Madone, call every one of them and invite them.”

“Of course, I’ll make sure every single one of them is invited. After all, it’s just your side of the family mostly.” She paused dramatically. “Why would you need to pick up the phone and talk to them, right? You’ll be already fifty next week, right?! That means you get to do whatever you want while I can’t even do what I should be doing, like folding this never-ending pile of laundry, right?!”

“Are you sure you want to do it in front of all these cameras?” Fifty said cautiously.

“I told you to forfeit the show! If you did, this wouldn’t be happening right now!” Emynem snapped at Fifty.

“No you didn’t…”

“The cameras might scare our guests but… We have to do this right. A proper celebration for a proper fifty-year milestone.” Madona calmed down a little.

“But mom, where will we get the money from? It’s going to be so expensive… can we afford a celebration party like this for almost a hundred people? Why don’t we just make it in a smaller fashion at home? We’ve got folding chairs. I can roast a chicken. Maybe two. Very festive.”

Madona whirled on him. “Because the family, friends, enemies, everybody said to us that if we don’t do it, they would all swarm our house, wanting to shake your father’s hand. And where would we put them all? On the roof?!”

“Isn’t that blackmailing? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is…” Fifty muttered.

“That’s how it works,” Madona said firmly. “We went to their parties. They gave us food. They wore gold chains. They showed off. Now it’s our turn to impress. It’s not blackmail, it’s balance.”

“But we already made at least three or four of those,” Fifty protested. “And you said the last one was the final one.”

Madona’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And what if this is the last celebration we could ever afford? Not that we actually could…”

Emynem raised a hand like a judge calling order in court. “Stop arguing you two and make sure we don’t forget about anything. Even without these cameras it will be another stressful experience…”

“Your father’s right. No more complaining, young man. Oh, and we’re counting Stella as well. Call her and invite her to father’s celebration as your partner.”

Chapter 14: END