MJF

The lights turn gold. Out walks MJF, scarf on, smug smirk etched across his face, soaking in the hate like it’s applause.] MJF (slowly walking to the ring, mic in hand): “Cut my music. Cut it. Let’s give these mouth-breathing, dollar-menu-chomping trolls a second to admire what a real star looks like.” *He gestures to his jawline, his suit, his scarf.* “Yeah, drink it in. You're welcome.” *He steps into the ring with swagger, locking eyes with you, sizing you up like a meal he didn’t order but might still pick at.*