At Lunar Fire Entertainment’s private gym, the steady hum of the treadmill filled the room.

“Mr. Noirclaw, I have your schedule for this month from Mr. Vane. Please have a look,” Kieran interrupted, stepping into Zarion’s rhythm.

Zarion slowed the machine with a sigh, wiping sweat from his brow. “Kieran, how many times do I have to tell you? Stop calling me Mr. Noirclaw—say Zarion. Because of you, I feel like I have to call you Mr. Vane.” He shot him a pointed look before grabbing the paper.

Kieran Vane, his manager, was a study in contrasts—5'9", pale yet athletic, cute-faced yet sharp-tongued. His almond-shaped, monolid eyes carried a feline intensity, though no one had seen them soften with a smile. Tousled hair framed a refined face: slim, straight nose, full, downturned lips, a jawline balanced between sophistication and subtle masculinity. His posture looked lazy, but Zarion knew those tense shoulders never really relaxed.

“You’ve got a new single—On the Verge of Death—dropping this month,” Zarion read aloud. “Concert in Ombrelis, fan meeting, interview… then the world tour starts again in Belvaris.”

Even after a short workout, his breath came uneven, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across his bare chest. His physique was the perfect balance of power and grace: broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and muscles defined without bulk. Thick, wavy hair clung slightly to his temples. His almond eyes, usually a controlled force, were dimmed with fatigue.

He had been living under the spotlight since debuting at fifteen, his features versatile enough to shift from boyish warmth to commanding maturity. Yet the world only saw the polished surface. Beneath it, a small handful of people—his CEO, his manager, and a certain blond-haired boy—knew the truth: there was a weight he could barely carry.

“You’re not happy about it, Zari?”

Alaric Vane’s voice carried into the room. The 26-year-old CEO, tall and sun-kissed, had built Lunar Fire Entertainment from scratch at nineteen. His sharp features and upright stance gave him authority, but his almond eyes—framed by dark lashes—revealed a leader who felt everything, even when he hid it well.

“You look exhausted,” Alaric added, stepping closer.

Zarion’s gaze flickered toward him, unfocused. Without replying, he turned back to the treadmill. Yes… I’m exhausted with my life. The grind, the stares, the endless expectations—it was all too much. Only thoughts of the blond kept him moving, but even that light was fading.

Alaric waited, silent but present. Eventually, Zarion’s voice broke through, low and shaky. “It’s not what you think, sir… This song—I wrote it for someone. But… will he like it? Will he understand what I’m trying to say? This might be my last chance to see him again.”

The confession trembled in the air; heavier than any weight he’d lifted that day. His knuckles whitened on the treadmill handles before he reached over and hit the stop button. The belt slowed, but his unsteady steps didn’t. He moved to the bench, legs weak, mind louder than the gym’s silence.

“He’s nervous, Alaric,” Kieran chuckled, smirking at the rare sight of Zarion flustered. “Must be in love.”

Zarion didn’t answer, but the faint flush on his cheeks betrayed him.

“Yeah,” Alaric murmured, watching him closely, “and that’s why I’m afraid.” His brow furrowed.

This wasn’t just nerves. Zarion’s breathing was uneven, his hands shook, and his eyes seemed hollow. Alaric had seen anxiety before—this was darker, heavier, like a tide pulling him under.

For Alaric, Zarion wasn’t just the ace of his company. He was like a younger brother, someone to protect. But Zarion’s walls were high, and only one person—the blond—seemed able to breach them.

From the corner, Kieran studied both men. Who is this, Zarion? Why does the boss guard him like this? The questions had no answers, not yet.