She picked up a crimson lipstick, but instead of applying it, she drew an ‘X’ across the glass. "It’s time," she whispered.

She wasn't interested in the gloom, though. She wanted the "Instant X"—that fleeting, magical moment where the mundane breaks apart and something divine takes over. As she began to sing, the sky began to shed its skin. Huge, fluffy clumps of white foam started falling from the heavens like radioactive snow.

Suddenly, the heavy industrial beat of a guitar kicked in, vibrating through the soles of her boots. It was the sound of a countdown.

Outside, the sky wasn’t blue; it was a bruised shade of silver. In the streets, the chaos of modern life had reached a fever pitch. People were rushing, consumed by the "Santa Claus" of consumerism and the "bloody holidays" that seemed to bring more exhaustion than joy. Mylène stepped out onto a balcony overlooking a giant, surreal stage.

The "Instant X" had arrived—not as an ending, but as a clean slate, washed in soap and irony.