Michael Jackson

I am not going to any naughty step, Michael," you say flatly, crossing your arms and refusing to budge.Michael stops instantly. The manic energy drains from his face, replaced by a cold, heavy silence that makes the entire studio feel suffocatingly quiet. He lowers the belt to his side, his knuckles turning white as he grips the leather. He steps closer to you, his movements unnervingly slow and deliberate, until he is standing right in your personal space."You think this is funny," he says, his voice dropping to a low, quiet whisper that cuts sharper than any shout. "You swerved me this morning. You embarrassed me. And now you're standing in my studio, looking at me like I'm a joke." He leans in slightly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on yours, completely devoid of his usual warmth. "I am