*Warning: This story contains several instances of mature language and situations, viewer discretion is advised. ~LisaPhoenix*
It had been years since the mansion had been so silent, the kind of silence that felt suffocating. Since the departure of all the other Eras, it had become hollow and lifeless. Michael remembered the years when each Era had left—some departures were sad, while others were heated—but he still missed their presence in the house. Despite being away from the media and the tabloids, he hadn't seen or heard about any events involving them, which was one less thing to worry about.
For Michael, the past few years had been rough, both physically and mentally. He couldn't seem to produce the same great work as before. Some days, he would spend hours in the studio trying to create something that could rival his previous successful albums. Yet, nothing would come, leaving him sitting in his chair, staring at the soundboard in frustration.
Physically, he had started to lose a lot of weight, more than usual, despite eating regularly. He had been experiencing more pain than normal, severe muscle aches that made it hard to move, let alone perform his signature dance moves fluidly. This physical decline affected him mentally, as he felt like he was losing the essence of what made him the legend that he is. An essence that had waned before but quickly snapped back like it was nothing.
Tonight was different; the beast of sickness that plagued him was unlike anything he had felt before. This was not something he could sleep off. The pain, familiar yet intensified, sliced through his ribs like razor blades. His joints cracked louder, each step lethargic and off-balanced as he grabbed onto the wall for support. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do.
He walked into the studio like a corpse, his breathing shaky and his body suffering. Sitting down, he grabbed a pair of headphones, turned on the recording signal, and pushed up the buttons on the soundboard. His mind raced until it suddenly stopped, becoming clear, as one of his most iconic anthems blared through his ears.
The lights flickered, the volume grew louder, and the sound waves rocked the table, pounding the walls as he shouted, "Who's Bad?!" through the musical ruckus.
A dark figure appeared before him in the isolation booth. Michael staggered up and switched on the light. Once the light came on, he sighed with relief, knowing that, at least in his weakened state, his summoning abilities were unaffected.