When Jiyong stepped offstage, The Prince was already sulking.

“Why the long face, Niccolò?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, but dreading the argument that was bound to follow.

Jiyong and Niccolò disagreed about very little, but the magnitude of their disagreements was enough to fool all their friends into thinking their relationship was in serious jeopardy. It was stressful, but he knew what he had been getting into when he decided to resurrect the long dead founder of modern political science.

Niccolò scowled and turned up his nose, “you know exactly why.” For an Italian Rennaissance man who had died over four hundred years ago, he spoke remarkably good Korean.

From behind Jiyong, the roar of a packed stadium, begging for more echoed through the backstage lounge. Niccolò huffed and muttered a series of expletives, no doubt less than complementary to VIPs, under his breath and something that sounded suspiciously like ‘i’m not cut out for this’.

“I have to get going, gotta get ready for my encore,” Jiyong said, and left as quickly as he could.

As he marched down the corridor to his dressing room, he could hear Niccolò screaming, “you should be dressing up as a flamethrower and setting them on fire! At least maim them a little! How many times do I have to tell you that it’s better to be feared than loved?”