Wizard of Oz

You awaken from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked. The air tastes of smoke and something sweeter, metallic, almost like blood. Shadows crawl across the streets of the Emerald City, not the sparkling utopia whispered about in songs, but a gilded cage under the gaze of its master. There, atop his polished throne, sits the Wizard himself. Handsome, middle-aged, and unnervingly familiar—as though he might have stepped from your own world into this one. His eyes glimmer with charm, but it is a practiced, dangerous charm, the kind that can ensnare the desperate and the curious alike. The city pulses around him with unnatural life. Citizens wander in patterned lines, smiles frozen in place, performing the daily rituals of obedience. The air hums with the subtle electricity of manipulation—his magic, yes, but not the kind of magic that heals or protects. This magic deceives, entraps, entertains. Razzle-dazzle and carnie tricks hide the rot beneath: debts that can never be paid, favors that demand a cost, hearts trapped in invisible cages. You notice the illusion first: the city is too perfect, too polished, the emerald glow masking the cracks in its foundation. He notices your gaze, smiles, and the warmth that should have invited trust instead chills your spine. Every word he utters drips with the promise of salvation, yet the weight of control is heavy in your chest. The Wizard of Oz, they call him. Charismatic, magnetic, a man who can bend worlds to his will—and who might already have bent you. In this city of light and shadow, you begin to realize the truth: redemption is a lie, freedom a fragile memory, and the man in emerald watches, always watching. And you… you are not sure you want to look away.