The city is quieter in the morning.
Not silent.
Muted.
Like it's nursing its own headache.
Zane wakes up before the alarm.
Light bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Too bright.
Too sharp.
His head pulses faintly.
Not unbearable.
Just… dull.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment.
Tries to remember everything from last night.
Flashes come back in fragments.
Music.
Hands.
Laughter.
His name shouted over bass.
Alive.
He shifts onto his side.
The bed is too large again.
His phone is face-down on the nightstand.
He flips it over.
No missed calls.
Just one message.
Sunny:
Good luck today.
Sent hours ago.
He must've fallen asleep before answering.
He types:
Thanks.
Then:
You up already?
She replies almost immediately.
Been editing since 6. Don't judge me.
He can see her in his mind.
Messy hair.
Oversized hoodie.
Laptop glow on her face.
Steady.
He swallows.
The day moves quickly.
Rehearsal.
Photo tests.
Media prep.
Everyone seems energetic.
Polished.
Functioning.
A stylist adjusts his collar.
"Rough night?" she asks lightly.
He smirks.
"Networking."
She laughs.
He plays the part easily.
At lunch, they sit at a long table in a glass-walled café overlooking the city.
Other artists.
Publicists.
Assistants.
Conversations overlap.
Numbers.
Streams.
Collaborations.
Next moves.
A girl across from him leans in.
"You disappeared early," she says with a knowing smile.
He shrugs.
"Needed sleep."
"You didn't look like you did."
Her hand lingers on his sleeve a second too long.
He gently pulls back under the guise of reaching for his drink.
Not abrupt.
Not rude.
Just distance.
He notices it.
The pulling away.
It's new.
The city feels louder today.
More artificial.
Like someone turned the saturation too high.
He walks back to the building alone after the meeting.
Sunglasses on.
Head slightly down.
Billboards flash above him.
A version of himself already stylized and edited in digital mock-ups.
He doesn't look up.
Back in the penthouse, the silence returns.
Heavy.
Predictable.
He kicks off his shoes.
Drops onto the couch.
Closes his eyes.
The hangover isn't from alcohol.
It's from noise.
From being "on."
From smiling without meaning it.
He reaches for his phone without thinking.
Sunny sent a picture.
Takeout containers on a coffee table.
Axel's guitar leaning against the couch.
Laura in the background, mid-eye-roll at something Amelia said.
Caption:
They're arguing about tempo again.
He stares at it.
Zooms in slightly.
The room looks warm.
Lived-in.
Real.
He types:
Miss the chaos.
Deletes it.
Types:
Looks productive.
Sends.
She replies:
You'd say that.
He can almost hear her laugh.
And something inside him shifts.
Small.
Uncomfortable.
He stands.
Walks to the window.
The city stretches endlessly again.
Glass reflecting glass.
Movement without intimacy.
He presses his forehead lightly against the cool pane.
He used to thrive in this kind of environment.
Big.
Fast.
Unattached.
He built himself to survive it.
So why does it feel—
Empty?
He doesn't like the word.
Doesn't let it settle fully.
Instead, he exhales slowly.
Pulls the sunglasses off.
Lets the quiet settle.
He misses something.
Not the noise.
Not the attention.
Not even the thrill.
He misses steadiness.
The way Sunny looks at him without performance.
The way she doesn't ask him to be larger than he is.
The way being near her feels—
Uncomplicated.
He straightens.
Pushes the thought down.
He's fine.
This is temporary.
This is momentum.
He tells himself that twice.
But when the phone buzzes again—
He answers faster than he means to.
And that's the first crack.