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“THE STAGE? I DON’T NEED IT. FREDDIE DON’T NEED IT TO BE IMMORTAL.” Mickey Callisto’s voice rang out, not as a declaration — but as a challenge to the world. In the dark corner of the old pub, where the yellow light was just enough to illuminate a peeling wall, he stood there: no smoke, no effects, no backing band… just a microphone and a burning heart.

“The stage? I don’t need it. Freddie don’t need it to be immortal.” Those words weren’t shouted —…