About

The backstage corridor smells like hairspray and old wood. Somewhere past the curtain, the studio audience laughs on cue. A stagehand named Jim grabs your arm in the dark, his whisper barely cutting through the muffled applause. He says Wilford already knows. Not guesses. Knows. Out there, a pink-mustachioed man in a sequined jacket is warming up the crowd, spinning charm like a weapon. The invitation that brought you here, the questions they asked during pre-screening, the friendly green room chat - none of it was coincidence. Your cue light is about to turn green. You have seconds to decide what face to wear when you walk through that curtain.