New York City was boiling over. Sirens blended with the roar of the crowds, helicopters ripped through the sky in search of exclusive shots, and in the streets, a dense mass of people shoved and pushed just to catch the slightest glimpse. All of this for the passage of Lennon Park, the biggest pop star on the planet.
The car advanced like a moving trophy: a limousine, windows reflecting the city like a mirror.
Standing through the sunroof, Lennon waved with a sharp smile, though he nearly lost it when a strange sensation struck him – like he'd seen a shadow, or someone staring at him deep within the crowd – but he brushed it off. With every movement of his hand, the audience erupted as if it were human fireworks.
People wept almost hysterically, raising massive posters that read:
"Lennon is eternity" or "Our prophet of music."
On tattooed skin, his flawless face appeared in monochrome, color, realism, surrealism – Lennon multiplied across every body.
On social media, the madness was even greater:
"He's not human. Lennon is an entity of art!"
"Five years in and he's already redefined pop. What's next? A religion?"
"#LennonDay is trending in 92 countries, outranking political news and global disasters."
At only nineteen, Lennon Park had already become the greatest American artist in the pop industry.
He shattered records like breathing: the first to hit one billion streams in 24 hours with the single Skybound Heart; world tours that sold out stadiums in minutes;
A documentary on the largest streaming platform that broke viewing records and was screened in public squares as if it were a national event. Critics who once sneered now called him "the new paradigm of music."
In just five meteoric years, he'd stopped being just a singer – he'd become a myth, a cult, almost a modern god.
Organized movements in his honor weren't uncommon, groups with flags and slogans treating his image like an ideology. Lennon Park wasn't just an artist – he was a global phenomenon.
But what no one knew, what no fan could imagine, was that this rise wasn't only the result of talent or luck.
Behind the glitter, hidden beneath the spotlights, there was a dark secret. One Lennon Park had never spoken of.
*****
The bedside clock read 6 p.m. when the alarm rang through the master bedroom of Lennon Park's mansion. It wasn't just a room – it was larger than most luxury apartments in Manhattan.
The mansion itself was one of New York's most coveted addresses, sitting in one of Manhattan's priciest neighborhoods.
Lennon didn't want to get up. He'd returned at 3 a.m. from a show in Los Angeles, flown back on his private jet, and barely had time to collapse into sleep. But his schedule didn't allow rest.
Every idle minute could mean losing thousands of dollars:
record label meetings, interviews, ad contracts, TV appearances, gala dinners. Lennon didn't own his time – he was the property of an industry orbiting around him.
Grumbling, he got up and dragged his feet to the bathroom. The space resembled a private spa:
White marble floors, cascading showers, smart mirrors that adjusted lighting to match his mood. Inside the shower, still half-asleep, Lennon unlocked his phone.
Opening Instagram, the flood of notifications looked unreal. His last post – a sweaty, smiling picture backstage after the show the night before – had already passed 45 million likes. In the comments, fans begged for his attention:
"Notice me, Lennon, just once!"
"You saved my life, Lennon. Thank you."
"The world is yours. Don't ever stop."
His feed overflowed with luxury brands tagging him, magazines teasing exclusive features, politicians and celebrities dropping his name. Lennon's life was what everyone wanted to watch, discuss, share.
Despite the exhaustion, he felt proud. Since childhood, he'd known something burned inside him – a gift. Music had chased him like destiny itself. When the time came, Lennon exploded like a meteor, impossible to ignore.
Stepping out of the shower, he moved to a side room off the bedroom. With a wave of his hand, the door slid open by sensor.
Inside was a scene straight out of a movie: a walk-in closet the size of a boutique mall. Dark-wood shelves displayed Armani, Balenciaga, Dior suits, endless rows of rare sneakers, cases of Rolex, Patek Philippe, Richard Mille watches, white-gold chains, diamonds, limited sunglasses not even for sale.
Unique, custom-made pieces designed by international fashion houses – things only Lennon owned.
He picked a Saint Laurent outfit with Louboutin shoes. Tonight's event awaited: a guest appearance on The Star Lounge, America's most coveted talk show, reserved for the elite of the elite. Rumors claimed the production had paid a fortune just to secure Lennon's presence on stage.
As he stepped out, his personal secretary, Clara, was already waiting, tablet in hand, posture flawless.
"Mr. Park, your schedule is packed. The Vogue cover shoot has been moved to tomorrow, the Nike contract is ready for signing, and director Michael Larson called requesting a meeting this week. And of course… tonight is Star Lounge."
"Perfect," Lennon replied flatly. "Just filter out who deserves my attention."
He walked down the hall to the garage. Cars lined up like a luxury army: a chrome Lamborghini Aventador, a midnight-blue Bugatti Chiron, a custom Rolls-Royce Phantom, an exclusive Tesla Roadster. But before he could choose, Clara cut in:
"Change of plans. We're going by helicopter – the producers requested a grand entrance."
Without argument, Lennon entered the panoramic elevator. As it rose to the rooftop, New York revealed itself in layers – skyscrapers and rivers glowing in the sunset. When the doors opened, the helicopter waited, sleek and black, his name etched discreetly on the side.
He climbed aboard. From above, the city looked like a lit-up game board. The people below were ants. He was the center of it all, the master of the spectacle.
On his way to television's most important stage, Lennon Park wasn't just a star. He was an empire in motion.
The arrival at the studio tower was triumphant. From above, the helicopter descended slowly under spotlights slicing the sky like swords of light. As soon as Lennon stepped onto the reserved walkway, the host was already announcing him in a voice dripping with showmanship:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the living phenomenon, the incomparable… Lennon Park!"
The studio shook with screams. Cameras, phones, flashes – it was chaos. Just his entrance alone broke the show's audience record. Never before had so many televisions tuned in at once. Never before had a single artist incited such hysteria. It was surreal.
The interview unfolded. Smiling like he held the perfect question, the host asked:
"Mr. Lennon Park, everyone knows you're already a living pop legend. And that's in just five years! What's the secret to all this fame? Because talent – you clearly have."
The question, seemingly harmless, struck Lennon like a hidden blade. He kept the smile, but inside, the memory cut deep. A moment of silence passed - only noticeable to those who truly knew him. Then, with steady voice, he answered:
"The secret is believing in yourself… and surrounding yourself with people who support you and help you grow."
The studio erupted in applause. Flashes fired endlessly. But behind the smile, Lennon knew the answer was only a mask.
Hours later, back inside the helicopter, he stared at his own reflection in the glass. The roar of the blades mixed with the echo of the question that wouldn't leave his head.
Five years… it's been five years since that day. But I got what I wanted.
I'm not just successful anymore. I'm beyond that…
With a sigh, he unlocked his phone. Notifications bubbled nonstop, but he searched for one folder. Inside, a photo of his family: father, mother, little sister. For a moment, he felt something rare – fragility.
And then, the unexpected.
A metallic crack, followed by the stench of burning fuel. The cockpit panel flared red. The helicopter lurched violently.
Flames burst from the right engine, sparks illuminating the cabin. Alarms screamed, instruments failed, and the aircraft plunged into chaos.
Lennon's eyes widened, but before he could react, his phone vibrated in his hand. There was no signal midair, yet a message appeared. The black letters seemed seared into the screen:
"You've enjoyed all the fame you were granted. Your soul is no longer yours."
Ice filled his veins.
He tried to scream, but his throat closed. The pilot shouted commands, yanked levers, but nothing responded.
The helicopter dove toward a mountain cloaked in shadows. Impact came in a deafening flash, followed by an explosion tearing through the night.
[Prisoner… welcome to the World of the Forgotten.]