The alarm rang at 6:00 a.m. sharp.
Adrien Cho-Camille opened his eyes before the second ring, hand already moving to silence it. He lay still for exactly three seconds—long enough to register the quiet, the pale morning light slipping through the curtains, the weight in his chest that came every morning like clockwork.
Then he got up.
The routine unfolded without thought. Shower. Skincare. Hair brushed into neat submission. Clothes chosen not for comfort, but for presentation—tailored slacks, a soft knit, neutral tones his mother approved of. By 6:30, he was flawless.
Downstairs, breakfast waited.
The dining room looked like something out of a magazine—marble table, fresh flowers, sunlight curated by expensive curtains. His parents were already seated.
"Good morning," Adrien said, voice calm, polite.
"Sit straight," his father replied without looking up from his tablet.
Adrien adjusted immediately.
Breakfast was efficient. Protein, fruit, tea. His mother commented on his posture. His father mentioned a fencing event next month. Someone's son had won a regional competition. Adrien nodded, absorbed it, filed it away like everything else.
No one asked how he slept.
By 7:10, the chauffeur was waiting.
Adrien slid into the back seat, tablet already in hand, reviewing sheet music he'd memorized years ago. The city passed by in quiet elegance, buildings blurring together like a life seen through glass.
The piano studio smelled faintly of old wood and polish.
"Encore une fois," Madame Lefèvre said, tapping his shoulder lightly with her pencil. "Redresse-toi. Tu joues comme si ton dos te détestait."
Straighten your posture.
Adrien corrected himself mid-phrase, fingers still flawless on the keys. Madame Lefèvre was in her seventies, sharp-eyed, French to the bone. Most of his teachers were. His parents preferred it that way.
"You are gifted," she said in French, softer now. "But discipline, Adrien. Always discipline."
"Yes, Madame," he replied automatically.
By 12:45 p.m., he was already moving on.
Violin at 1:00.
Figure skating at 3:00.
The rink was cold, the ice unforgiving. Adrien moved across it with practiced grace, body precise, face serene. Applause from the sidelines. Corrections shouted. Expectations reinforced.
A twenty-minute break followed. He sat alone, scrolling absently through his phone, sketching shapes in his mind he no longer put on paper.
Then the photoshoot.
Smile. Turn. Chin up. Perfect.
At 5:00 p.m., Korean class. His pronunciation was impeccable. His teacher praised him. His mother would be pleased.
By the time he returned home, the sky was dark.
Dinner at 8:00 p.m. exactly.
Another meal. Another conversation about achievements that weren't his. He listened. He smiled. He nodded.
At 10:30, he lay in bed, muscles aching, mind restless.
Tomorrow was a school day.
Today wasn't.
And it had still swallowed him whole.
Zane Calloway woke up at 11:07 a.m. to the sound of his phone buzzing and sunlight hitting his face through uncurtained windows.
"Morning, Ma," he muttered, leaning over to kiss his mother's cheek. She grunted, half-asleep, swatting him away with a smile.
Cereal straight from the box. Milk poured carelessly. Phone in hand, scrolling through messages and memes, one leg hooked over the counter chair.
No schedule. No clock watching.
By noon, he was dressed and heading out.
The gym smelled like sweat and metal and effort. Zane lived there for hours—training hard, pushing his body until the world narrowed to breath and impact. Laughter with teammates. Shared meals between sessions. Someone passed him a cigarette; he took a few discreet drags, crushed it out early.
His mom hated it.
At 3:00 p.m., he went home. The apartment was quiet. His mom was still at work. Zane kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed, sleeping like a man who'd earned it.
At 8:00 p.m., he woke up again.
Showered. Changed. Dressed in something dark and easy. He checked the time, then headed out to his favorite gay bar—the one with neon lights and music that pulsed through his chest.
He drank. Laughed. Flirted. He kept an eye on himself, stopped before the room tilted too much.
His mom hated that too.
By 11:00 p.m., he was home.
The living room light was still on.
His mother sat slumped on the couch, fast asleep, still in her work clothes. Zane smiled softly, scooped her up without waking her, carried her to bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. He tucked her in, pulled the blanket up, kissed her forehead.
"Night, Ma."
He shut the door gently behind him.
Two men.
Two lives.
Same city.
They had no idea the collision was already inevitable.