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How many people would attend her funeral? How many would cry? And how many would say they missed her? And how many wouldn't care? And would say, «Good riddance!»
Of course she had haters, of course she had a community that rejected her music for being so sentimental, but what about her fans? Strangers who supported her, who said they loved and supported her; sending her sweet and cheerful messages about how her perspective on life had changed… but Seraphine wasn't talking about them.
Will those people who suffer from the same problem cry? Sera knew the usernames of those who usually wrote to her; whether five, ten, or a hundred, there were a handful of names that the cupcake didn't overlook; hate messages alongside texts showing their unconditional support… contradictions. At first, she mocked them: «Poor wretches,» they can't stand seeing someone they considered their equal at the top.
And of course, she was labeled a "connected" artist for quite some time. Rome wasn't built in a day, and Sera had to pave her way through sheer persistence until she caught the attention of the bigwigs. She had earned it; she had worked so hard for it that… in the end, all her persistence was for nothing.
Seraphine knew that signing this new contract meant giving up her title of "the starry-eyed singer," giving up the color that defined her, and saying goodbye to that luxurious and artificial life. In her new life, she wouldn't be poor; she would have the same income—and perhaps more—but she would no longer be subject to those unwritten social rules from above.
She had signed a divorce from her fragmented personalities to let the true creature out. Perhaps it's a bit poetic, but for Sera, today was her baptism into the other world. Today she committed herself—almost body and soul—to darkness. Or so it seemed when she saw her costume: a dress that appeared to be woven from the blood and shadows she had silenced for months. A crimson velvet corset, as deep as a wound. From the shoulders of the dress emerged sleeves of black and transparent chiffon, finished with puff cuffs at the wrists that seemed to float around the garment like black smoke at the slightest movement. But the most striking element was the veil: a cascade of subtle black tulle with intricate florals that fell from the mannequin's head, covering her face imperceptibly yet decisively. It was a veil of mourning for her former self, but also a transparent barrier that would bind her to her new family. The ensemble ended with a hidden and lethal provocation: a daring slit in the skirt, and a choker necklace of red and black stones that glittered like a dark amulet.
It should be sad. The dressmakers were dressing her, removing her old clothes to adjust the new ones with several pairs of slender hands with long, delicate fingers that never stopped tweaking the intricate details of the corset.
But for some reason, Sera wasn't overwhelmed.
She'd been through this before, hadn't she? People touching her body, pulling fabrics in ways that forced her to move, voices constantly telling her "take that off" or "now put that on"... When she was in the hands of her dressmakers, Seraphine's body was their mannequin, their pretty porcelain doll that they would dress with professionalism and without care, seeking the product that would sell for millions.
And she accepted it.
She would accept being Death's bride to once again captivate the masses with her new voice. She would represent the siren who enchants fishermen when they go hunting at night, she would be the harmony preceding the shipwreck, taking her new subordinates with her while creating symphonies with their souls.
Seraphine accepted her new beginning and felt no remorse as she closed her eyes and lifted her chin when the makeup team surrounded her, raising their brushes and face paint palettes to finish their masterpiece. The world wasn't ready to see the new cupcake.
Pentakill had never seen Sera so free. The image they had of her was of a very shy girl, who barely answered their messages and only sent smiley face emojis, who rejected their plans to go out partying, and who, if they dragged her along, would sulk the whole way. Now, the woman they had there, surrounded by a retinue of stylists and image consultants, demanded how her eyeliner should look, the color of her lipstick, and who could touch her pink hair.
As they watched their girl shed the ties that still bound her to the surface, the other members of Pentakill were treated with the same professionalism, even though for them it was an everyday occurrence. They had already signed their sentence long ago; they no longer remembered what it meant to be part of the metal industry without carrying the prejudices of the rest of the world. Brutes, savages, beasts? Living with them for that term, Sera learned that no one had to fit the stereotype imposed upon them. Her mentor enjoyed classical music and possessed an enviable general knowledge; her two friends adored fashion and shopping together... Yet, when they spoke to her, Sera still felt like the odd one out.
From another perspective, perhaps she had been the villain of the story without realizing it. Until her melancholic friend showed her. Until her surface charms ceased to have any effect.
When the group of image consultants finally dispersed—like a shark swimming near a school of small fish—Seraphine looked at herself in the mirror. By refusing to change her pink hair, she was defying the guidelines the styling team had given her to force her into the band. Letting her pink waves peek out from under the veil was her greatest act of rebellion. She felt the cool tulle against her face and, at the same time, the warmth of her own hair falling over her shoulders, covering the top of the corset.
Yet the eyes in her reflection still held an innocence. That wide gaze, like that of a deer caught in the middle of the road, carefully observed her new look. She wasn't disappointed; she was pleased. The studio had been careful not to infantilize her, but neither had they created a stereotypical costume.
She heard someone's voice in the background: five minutes before the shoot. Seraphine glanced one last time at her reflection in the dressing room mirror, resisting the automatic urge to pull out her phone and scroll through social media. Luckily, the manager's silhouette appeared in the doorway, head bowed and one hand theatrically covering his eyes.
"What are you even doing?" Sera let out a dry chuckle at the sight of her representative's dramatics.
“This is the second time—and I hope the last—that I’ve come into a dressing room looking for you, come on, sweetie. Time is money.”
“What do you mean by that?” she said, her tone hardening. It wasn’t aggressive, but firm, holding his gaze through the mirror. “You could have sent one of the girls or even the assistants, but here you are.”
“Ah, my little girl has grown up.” The old manager smiled with that corporate malice of his, letting his hand fall. “I would ask if you were nervous, but I see you’re not. Ready?”
Thresh offered her his hand. Sera looked at it for a second before accepting, and the gesture triggered an almost identical memory: that afternoon when, mired in an identity crisis in her old dressing room, he appeared with an offer that promised to save her. He had offered her his hand in exactly the same way. Only this time, Seraphine was no longer afraid of making a pact with the devil.
“Half our quarterly budget went to your outfit,” Thresh muttered as he led her with a firm stride toward the exit, the echo of his footsteps reverberating in the hallway.
The girl bit her lip, glancing sideways at the man, who was trying to hide a smug smile.
“You’re lying,” she whispered. The manager simply shook his head, amused.
“Have you seen the quality of your colleagues’ clothes?” They stopped right at the side entrance to the main set. Thresh nodded toward the center of the studio, where the action had already begun. “Of course theirs is haute couture, but I didn’t have as much consideration for their whims as I did for your designer.”
“If this is a strategy to make me feel lucky… it’s not going to work,” Sera replied, straightening her back as she took in the glare of the spotlights. “You said it yourself: your girl has grown up. Now let me put a price on all those stacks of cash you see on me.”
Thresh let out a husky laugh and led her straight to the lounge area, a corner of worn leather sofas at the edge of the cyclorama.
The studio was already a hive of heavy energy. Industrial music blared at a volume that made the ceiling panels vibrate, marking the rhythm of the first shift. The colossus Morde was already posing, obeying the photographers' directions without a single complaint, moving his imposing metal armor under harsh backlighting that made him look like an iron deity. The flashes of the cameras bounced off his armor, momentarily blinding anyone who looked directly at him.
Around the sofas, the rest of the band killed time writing on their phones or taking selfies that would later flood social media. When Sera appeared floating in her cloud of black gauze and velvet, the conversations stopped abruptly.
They waited for their newest member to approach. They kept their eyes on her, paying attention to how the skirt of her dress billowed elegantly with each step and how her veil prevented them from seeing her face. Seraphine could see their expressions of astonishment, even though they couldn't see her own expressions of excitement.
However, the fabulous entrance she had envisioned didn't materialize when her dramatic companion appeared from among his friends. Without thinking, the words "Why are you white?" escaped his lips. A terrible choice of words that made everyone laugh. Viego couldn't even respond sarcastically because he was the second one chosen by the photographers.
As the vocalist left the lounge area to enter the set, his friends began to compliment her dress, and the girls, in particular, rubbed their fingers along Sera's delicate black chiffon sleeves.
They invited her to sit with them and participate in their own photo sessions while they joked around or showed each other memes until the temperature in the complex dropped considerably. Seraphine joined Kayle, seeking a warm refuge, which Kayle readily offered, simply giving her a warm smile.
"Is this the first time you've seen him?" she murmured, glancing around the set.
“What do you mean?” he replied, tilting his head.
The woman pointed to the stage, which was now covered by a grayish fog that crept across the porcelain stoneware floor. Sera had to switch seats with her companion to be able to see what she was talking about, at which point Olaf put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him to watch as his melancholic companion earned the praise of the photographers.
They could hear the voices, but seeing exactly what was happening was difficult. The lights were very dim and just then went out to switch to the next focus. When they turned the lights back on, positioning themselves behind him to give him a rim light effect, Sera gave a small jump – which also made Olaf bounce – upon seeing the creature on the stage: an imposing figure with both arms raised; the left arm stretched fully toward the ceiling, elongating the armpit and torso, while the right arm was folded behind the neck.
His body wasn't facing the camera directly, but rather in a three-quarter profile. His back was subtly arched, stretching and tensing his abdomen, aesthetically defining his waistline. His face was tilted downward and slightly forward. His hair fell carelessly over his eyes, partially obscuring his gaze. But the most striking thing about the man was his red and black complexion, with a pair of horns peeking out from his platinum locks that shone with a beautiful matte jet-black color.
The room lit up with strobe flashes from camera cameras as the vocalist opened his eyes. That emerald glow in the darkness—a stark contrast to his skin—earned the photographers' admiration for several seconds before they moved on to the next pose, proving that aggression could also be artistic material.
Seraphine took notes as her bandmates came on stage. Thresh came and went, snooping around the session, reminding Sera every now and then to take a deep breath before going off to smoke or chat with Morde.
Then she noticed her melancholic friend returning from his set. Seraphine greeted him with one of her most piercing glares, to which he responded by showing her the middle finger with complete composure while brushing his platinum locks away from his face.
"I thought you were human," she murmured when he was close enough, gesturing with her chin toward the dark horns that were camouflaged on his head. "But it turns out you're the devil himself in a white suit."
“I left the photographers speechless, which is what matters,” he replied, flashing a smug smile. "Although I think you're annoyed because you know I've stolen the spotlight from you."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, engaged in a mock ego battle, until neither could stifle their laughter any longer.
“You look… odd,” Viego said, sinking heavily onto the adjacent leather sofa and stretching his legs wearily.
“I look fabulous, ruined king,” Sera retorted immediately. She tilted her head, arranging the black chiffon sleeves on her lap with a rehearsed runway gesture. “It’s haute couture. You should take notes.”
However, as she maintained the lie with her best diva smile, her treacherous fingers unconsciously slid down toward the intricate details of the corset, brushing against the stiff velvet seams. «Isn’t this a bit much?» a pang of panic whispered in her chest. The nerves she thought she’d buried in front of the dressing room mirror suddenly cornered her in that armchair. The dress was a work of art, she loved it, but a part of her felt like an imposter playing dress-up, a little girl shrouded in the mourning of a lethal woman. The moment the photographer called her, the deception would be exposed.
Viego seemed to notice the subtle change in her posture, or perhaps he simply knew her too well. He let out a low growl and crossed his arms.
“Stop overthinking it. If we all stopped to think about how ridiculous we look in these clothes before going on stage, metal concerts would be a fucking church. We wouldn’t exist. Look in the mirror again if you need to: you look stunning.”
Sera glanced at him, easing the tension in her shoulders. Her friend's bluntness always worked like the best painkiller.
"Sera... Serafín?" one of the photographers called from the center of the cyclorama, consulting a digital tablet while scanning the venue for the pink-haired mane.
Viego gave her a friendly nudge with his shoulder.
"Your turn, Serafín. Go break their lens."
This time, she flipped him the bird as she strode purposefully onto the set. She introduced herself to the technician in charge, answering questions about her preferences, clarifying how the session would proceed, and signing the consent form.
They began with a close-up, where the light came from the background, filtered softly through a curtain. As the light fell from behind, the veil dramatically revealed all its intricate floral patterns. The fabric ceased to be a dark mass and became a translucent filigree that covered her face and draped over her chest, allowing a glimpse of her chin in profile and her collarbone. Her hands assumed a theatrical pose, lightly touching her shoulders.
The following shots were taken without the veil. The light was projected directly towards Seraphine, creating a perfect circle on the white wall behind her and casting her shadow in a darker and more gigantic way. Sera had her left leg raised, bending her knee at an acute angle and pointing her heeled foot firmly downwards. The slit of her dress fell to the sides, revealing her entire thigh. Her right arm was bent upward, framing her head and resting delicately on her hair; her left arm hung loose, but not limp: her fingers were slightly extended and arched, maintaining the dramatic tension of her body.
Her face was turned slightly to the side, but her gaze was fixed on the camera. She wasn't smiling; there was an icy, defiant, and self-assured seriousness as her pink locks fell over the corset and down her back.
The following photos followed Sera's directions; flashes went off as she moved gracefully across the stage, swirling the hem of her dress with her hands as she twirled on her heels… until she decided to add her own little watermark.
Knowing that photographers loved a challenge, Sera twisted her body into one of those impossible manga poses she found so amusing: she kept her lower half in profile, but turned her torso almost directly toward the camera, arching her spine backward in an S-curve that defied human ergonomics. She intertwined her legs, stepping forward with her left leg to reveal another glimpse of thigh, and raised her arms above her pink hair, clasping her hands at a perfect right angle, as if framing her own audacity. The studio erupted in a burst of flashes.
After the initial excitement subsided, the photography team gave the group a half-hour break before continuing with the group photos. She couldn't take off her dress yet; the family photos were still to come. But she didn't turn down those thirty minutes where she could recharge her social batteries. Was posing for the camera always so exhausting? Perhaps. In part, she was giving them the product they would later sell, and her mind was completely occupied with nothing. She was completely inert for the professional shots before letting her hair down and capturing her essence on the digital camera with the dynamic photos.
Sera thought that by doing this she would say goodbye to her masks, but the opposite happened. She had to put on the veil once more—a farewell—before her advisors gave her permission to let go. And the change significantly impacted the result.
She sat down on one of the sofas, making sure the opening of her dress wasn't too revealing, and finally she was able to pick up her phone. An action she regretted, as the dark reflection revealed a Luciferian face behind her, making her curse and, consequently, making her friend laugh.
“Let me know when you’re going to appear, you damned specter,” Sera muttered, still clutching her phone, her heart pounding in her throat. “I almost dropped my phone!”
Viego let out a husky laugh, a dry sound that seemed to vibrate from deep within his chest as he leaned back on the sofa, invading her space with complete nonchalance.
“Were you scared of me, or of what you see when you’re near me?” he retorted, pointing to the phone that now lay face down in Sera’s lap.
Seraphine couldn’t argue with that. In a way, he was right; she didn’t exactly look friendly when she saw herself in any reflection either. She was the closest thing to a dark nun, possessed by the devil who had come to harvest her soul and, to dramatize things, offer it to his spectral friend.
"You're too cheerful." She narrowed her eyes, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
Her perception of him at that moment—horns and all—wasn't that of a young man in his twenties suffering from severe depression, but rather that of an energetic rogue who enjoyed outshining his companions with his tricks, and of bothering his only female companion who understood his absurd humor without considering that he might be overwhelming her.
And yet, Seraphine didn't look at him with disdain and regretted having been so rude with her words. Luckily, the specter looked at her with a grimace of feigned disgust.
"If you like, I'll go back to being the melancholic king where all his days are gray," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "I'm trying to improve and this is how you repay me?"
Sera shook her head and let out a shy giggle. Even she found Viego's changes quite drastic, but not unpleasant. However, both she and he would have to get to know each other again, without the barriers of black tulle that reflected their public mourning.
“Isolde also demanded her alone time,” he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper that carried a great emotional weight. “She would get angry with me when I didn’t let her sew in peace or when she was doing anything else that didn’t require my presence.”
Sera watched her partner, seeing how his gaze was fixed on the audiovisual technicians as he confessed fragments of his memories; mornings when he never stopped kissing his wife, afternoons of any season of the year where Viego occupied a place by her side while she sewed, constantly talking to her about anything until she got angry because he didn't let her work… Eventually his voice died in a low growl. In the end, the self-realization that he might have been an affectionate monster hit him hard.
Loving someone was fine, but flooding them with affection, closing off their world with your presence and interests, turning it into a cage that shrank until it crushed the bird inside, wasn't Viego's definition of "loving someone."
"Did I really do that badly?" The self-reflection escaped his lips with a slight tremor. Now, opening his heart didn't bother him so much; he even found it therapeutic.
Realizing this progress also made him sick. He still loved his ex-wife. Or did she love how his heart beat when he overwhelmed her? It was contradictory; talking about her helped him, both to overcome his endless mourning and to recognize his mistakes, and that last part bothered him. Because now, under what meaning could he hide his suffocating affection? He had only one task and he had failed miserably, leaving him with a deep wound in his chest and a tragic appearance.
Seraphine soon understood that Viego's problems might have a much deeper basis. Something they couldn't speak freely about in front of everyone, especially not the bold green eyes of their manager, who was surely pen and paper in hand, about to write their next hit that would take them back to the big red catwalk at the expense of the young vocalist's traumas.
She had to act quickly, say something nonsensical or reckless, intending to shift her friend's melancholy back to the present.
So, breaking all semblance of civility, Sera reached out, closed her fingers around one of the dark horns on his head, and yanked it down roughly.
“Ow! What the hell are you doing?” Viego protested, letting out a grunt and hissing in surprise as he was forced to tilt his head to Sera’s side. His green eyes flashed, but this time with pure earthly indignation, not pity.
“Checking if they’re real, or if Thresh has cut your budget too,” she replied with utter nonchalance, letting go of him and wiping her hands on her dress as if she’d touched something dirty. “Stop making that abandoned dog face. You messed up, I get it, you drowned her in a cage, but would you want to look bad in the photo? With how vain you are?”
Viego blinked, rubbing his head in disbelief before a crooked, resigned smile appeared on his lips. Sera’s trick had worked.
She offered him her hand to help him up, but without making any effort. They held eye contact for a few moments until the man's foolish attitude resurfaced, and his eyes once again sparkled with that mischievous glint that made Sera regret encouraging him.
“You look like a funeral bride,” he commented, crouching down to Sera’s eye level, who had put her veil back on.
She simply kicked him in the shin and walked toward the center of the cyclorama, where the rest of the crew were already gathering around the technical team, eager to see their photos before everyone else's.
They pressed against them, peeking their heads in to see the results of the shoot. The person behind the computer displayed the photos for a few seconds before moving on to the next shots, allowing the Pentakill group to offer their praise and votes.
They spent a good while deciding which poses looked best, just as an assistant approached with drinks. The atmosphere in the place ceased to be boring and quickly refreshed when the iced coffee lowered the temperature of the models. As they watched their colleagues congratulate the cameras on their work, Sera offered Viego another sip of her matcha, who wrinkled his face after accepting a drink.
He was almost certain that, with a second sip, he could accustom his palate to his friend's exotic tastes.
When it was time to review the photos of the two of them, their most arrogant sides came to the fore. They hadn't made the same gestures, but they were on par; placing their hands on their chests and feigning false modesty while their egos were inflated by the team's compliments.
Finally, the final stretch arrived. All the band members took their respective places on the set—places that no one had assigned them, but which they assumed purely by instinct—the metal mountain in the center, accompanied by the other adults on either side, and in the middle, the two young members of the group.
The enormous room was once again filled with stroboscopic flashes from the cameras, continuing until they received final confirmation from the photographers.
Once the session concluded, they were given the option of retiring to the changing rooms or using the studio's facilities for less professional, more playful photos. The photography studio hadn't expected their terrifying clients to use their facilities and equipment to take their own snapshots; whether in pairs, trios, or individually, Pentakill surprised Sera with their own JoJo's Bizarre Adventure-inspired poses, albeit less contorted.
On the computer they saw some photos of the couple, where Sona had her hands in front of her face, forming a frame with her thumb and forefinger while looking directly through the rectangular space. Her right eye was squinted, as if mimicking the action of focusing a lens, while her left remained open, defiant and calculating.
Morde stood immediately behind Sona, acting as her shadow. Both hands were raised at his sides, shoulder-width apart, palms open and pointing straight ahead in a rigid position. Enveloped in dense gloom, the only details that stood out were the spikes on his shoulder guards and the pair of horns on his helmet.
Sera was pleased that her colleagues had understood the reference in one of her photos and had dedicated a little more of their time to fooling around. It was an almost unheard-of opportunity that she didn't waste. She dragged her Luciferian companion along and forced him to pose with her.
Seraphine appeared on the computer screen in the foreground and without the veil, positioned slightly to the left. Her torso was tilted to the side, and her right hand was raised toward her face, her fingers flexed to point toward her lips. Her eyes were fixed directly on the lens, with a stern, defiant expression that exuded absolute confidence.
Viego stood directly behind her, to her right, acting as her physical and visual support. His body merged almost completely with his companion's; circling Sera from behind, gently resting his right cheek against the temple of her head, which was hidden by her pink locks of hair, creating a diagonal line with their faces. His right hand peeked out from under her shoulder, and his index finger seemed to be forcing Sera to look straight ahead. As if he wanted to show her how far her rebellion had gone, that she shouldn't be ashamed.
Like Seraphine, he stared straight ahead with sharp, intense eyes, highlighting a strong jaw and lips that curved into a subtle smile. He conveyed the feeling of being a protective wall or her unconditional ally, watching her back.
He was literally the devil whispering things in her ear.
Pentakill didn't overlook that photograph. The devastating combination of their two youngest vocalists—an imposing image that instantly reclaimed the respect they had both lost through controversy—was too good to keep to themselves. They decided to attach all the informal shots in a second post which, as expected, set social media ablaze.
Soon, Twitter became a hive of notifications. Users began demanding more content from them en masse; Some celebrated how well Sera fit in with her new family — fascinated by the authenticity she conveyed with hardly any effort — while others had already created kilometer-long threads filled with conspiracy theories and wild speculation about the band's dangerous new duo.