"JINDAYA LOSES IT AGAIN!"

The subscript ran across the screen.

"Seriously?" He raised a brow.

While he was used to gossip sites doing pieces on him, he'd never expected a serious news channel to stoop this low.

"Once again, here is footage of actor Jorah Jindaya assaulting a member of the press last night."

He watched as footage of the incident was replayed. On the screen was his own image as he lashed out at the intrusive cameras. It had been a moment of heated reaction that was now immortalized for public scrutiny, yet another strike against him.

"We have in the studio with us, Chuck Lee, media correspondent from TZN." When he heard the name, Jorah rolled his eyes. "Chuck, what are your thoughts on this latest footage from Mr. Jindaya?"

"Thank you for having me Jason." The new man began. "You know, this is just yet another, what I would call, unacceptable display from Mr. Jindaya."

The newscaster nodded solemnly.

"You know, time and again, Mr. Jindaya has shown himself to be one of the most menacing actors of this generation."

Words like these were not new to him. Jorah had already heard the full gamut. He was acutely aware of what they thought of him – A talentless bad boy, reckless and untamed.

He stopped questioning whether he deserved it ages ago. It would only ever be like this.

"I want you to weigh in on this Chuck. We've seen the footage. What exactly happened?"

"Well Jason, as you can see, members of the free press were just trying to get a few photos of Mr. Jindaya and unfortunately it resulted in what we just saw."

Members of the free press. Jorah snorted at the term. They were more like obnoxious bastards who have no respect for anyone.

"Right." The interview continued. "But this isn't his first incident, is it?"

Though the guest made a solemn face, his eyes were gleeful, and his voice was coated in criticism. "Unfortunately, it isn't. Mr. Jindaya has had quite a few questionable incidents offscreen."

The main presenter glanced aside, "We only have a few more minutes Chuck, can you weigh in on this phenomenon, more and more we're seeing people from wealthy families getting into the entertainment industry. Do you think this kind of thing has any bearing on incidents like this?"

The man's eyes lit up. "Oh of course Jason! I think there is a certain kind of entitlement that comes from being born, privileged as they would say. I mean, if you look at Mr. Jindaya's on screen track record, you will realise that all of his projects have been mediocre at best--

That was it. He'd had enough. The narrative wasn't new, but it was still tiring.

He took another look at the document that was in his hand before casually tossing it on to the sleek glass coffee table where it landed amidst a slew of tabloid magazines—each cover emblazoned with his image. It was all rubbish anyway, whether it was those ridiculous headlines or that letter claiming grievous bodily harm.

He clicked his tongue in disgust. Grievous bodily harm? The accusation was absurd, exaggerated to the point of defying common sense. Maybe they were idiots? Had his lawyer even glanced at the footage? It was a shove, a single moment where his personal space was being reclaimed, nothing more.

"Somebody didn't do their research." He rolled his eyes.

A simple assault charge might have held water at least. But people were greedy and tended to overreach. They undoubtedly saw him as a walking payday. With one successful lawsuit, he could probably retire from taking photos and move to a tropical island someplace.

How stupid.

They already thought he was the bad guy, didn't they? What was wrong with playing into the narrative. They at least should be aware that when it came to fights, he never lost– not even once.

He picked up one of the latest tabloids and looked at the capture. A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips as he replayed the evening's debacle. He'd just gone out to eat with a friend. Of course, the mere sight of him had sent those buzzards into a tizzy. If they hated him so much why did they love taking his photos?

They'd been trying to make their way back to their car when they'd been swarmed like a carcass. The blinding flashes of those cameras, a din of voices shouting his name and asking him ridiculous questions he didn't care to answer. Amidst all of that he'd tried to make his way back to his car until someone had crossed the line by touching him.

It was a reflex. To protect himself he'd pushed back.

It was an error in his judgement. Not actually shoving the guy of course. He just hadn't expected a guy who looked like an African Bush Elephant to be as light as a feather. A twisted smile graced Jorah's lip. He tilted his head thoughtfully.Perhaps it was not so strange. Maybe it was difficult for that guy to manage all that weight on those two tiny legs of his.

The more he mused on it, the more his smile opened, like a newly budding flower in spring. Now that he thought about it, it was kind of funny. Pictures of that would have made for a better spread on the front page.

The buzzing of his phone in his pocket pulled him from his reverie.

He looked at the caller ID. Tanner.

Ignoring his manager's call, Jorah flicked through the string of notifications on his phone. A few were links to tabloid headlines or gossip sites detailing his or some other poor sap's latest scandal, whether real or imagined.

"Damn vultures," he muttered. With an aggressive swipe, he cleared the cascade of media buzz.

This kind of treatment was gross and intolerable. To have lenses shoved within inches of your skin felt like a violation.

"Next they'll be selling magnified prints of my asshole," he scoffed.

He was once again confronted by how ridiculous the whole thing was.

He'd been dealing with this kind of thing too long.

When his phone rang again, he picked up.

"I'm on my way." he told his manager as soon as the line opened, ending the call right after.

With a look of disdain, Jorah grabbed the stack of magazines and tossed them in the trash.

After Tanner's second call, Jorah had left his apartment and headed straight to his manager's officer Down Town.

The moment he stepped out of the car, the click of a camera shutter echoed in his ears like a mocking taunt. He couldn't escape them—not even after last night's debacle.

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Seoul yet a storm was raging inside him.

Shades on, Jorah strode through the glass doors of the building. His long legs quickly crossed the floor amidst the curious eyes as he made his way to the elevator.The lobby, adorned with minimalist decor and modern art pieces, had a sterile elegance that contrasted sharply with the chaos of the outside world.

Once in the elevator, he coolly selected the button to Tanner's floor. When the shiny doors closed, he could see his reflection on the polished metal doors. Jorah Jindaya, a man with a face too handsome to be up to any good —dark, shoulder-length hair sat atop his head in a messy bun. Sun-kissed skin peaked out from where one button was left undone.

The instant Jorah pushed open the doors, the lively chatter that had filled the agency's office tapered off as though someone had hit the mute button. The air was thick with unspoken words and stifled curiosity, as those eyes followed him.

He moved purposefully as he approached the reception desk. His eyes, hidden behind those shades, swept across the room, noting the hasty retreat of gazes that dared to flicker in his direction.

The young lady at the desk's head shot up with a nervous smile.

"Mr. Jindaya," her voice was barely above a whisper, as though saying his name would trigger certain doom.

"Is Tanner in?" Jorah asked, his voice controlled and measured.

"Uh, y-yes." The receptionist's voice cracked under the strain, her attempt at calm professionalism crumbling like dry clay. She fumbled with a stack of papers on her desk, seeking refuge in the routine shuffle of documents. "He's expecting you. Please go on in."

The corners of Jorah's mouth curled into a smile—a rare display of gentleness that seemed to contradict the storm of controversy swirling around him.

"Thank you," he said, the warmth in his tone wrapping around the two words like a blanket.

With a fluid motion, he turned from the reception desk, leaving behind the flustered girl and the sea of hushed murmurs.

He had a vague idea of what his manager wanted to meet with him about. After all, there was a storm outside and he was at the eye of it–---again.

Jorah stepped into the office. Sunlight streamed in from floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a spotlight on Tanner seated behind his mahogany desk.

After casting a sweeping glance at the man sitting at the desk, Jorah made a beeline for the bar in Tanner's office, fixing himself a drink before heading to the leather sofa.

The plush leather sofa groaned under Jorah's weight as he dropped onto it, a stark contrast to the poised and polished image his former governess had so tirelessly worked to instill.

Fully absorbed in whatever was commanding his attention, not even the sound of Jorah plopping in the sofa made Tanner look up from his screen. The soft click-clack of fingers dancing over keys filled the office, punctuated only by Tanner's murmured affirmations into the receiver cradled against his shoulder.

Finally, with a cursory glance and a grin that carried a hint of camaraderie, Tanner acknowledged Jorah's presence. He raised a single digit, which Jorah acknowledged with a nod.

Taking a sip of his drink, he reclined a little. Though in his mind he anticipated Tanner's displeasure, being here in his manager's office, he could briefly lay down the armor of celebrity until it was time to fight again.

His legs formed a steep bridge over each other. He had yet to remove his shades as his hand slid into his pocket to retrieve his phone.

From his desk, Tanner's voice cut through the silence, firm and final. "Mn. This isn't up for discussion anymore." The tone was unmistakable, a blend of authority and finality that brooked no argument. A statement like that from Tanner meant the end of negotiation, the closing of doors on alternate possibilities. Jorah didn't need to look up to picture the slight frown on Tanner's brow.

On his phone, the streams of social media updates and emails flowed under his gaze. Yet a part of him remained attuned to Tanner's presence in the room. In the quiet hum Jorah awaited the moment when the spotlight would finally swing to him.

A brief silence filled the room as the call disconnected. Finally, Tanner redirected his full attention toward Jorah, who remained lounged on the sofa, an island of nonchalance in a sea of tension.

"Jorah. Good to see you," Tanner opened, the corners of his mouth lifting in an easy smile that reached his eyes—a practiced gesture, yet not without genuine warmth. It was the smile of a chess player making a pivotal move, one that held both camaraderie and the anticipation of strategy about to unfold.

"Mn," Jorah murmured, as his thumbs continued their dance across the screen of his phone. He didn't bother to raise his eyes; his peripheral vision was enough to note Tanner's shift in posture.

The chair creaked slightly as Tanner settled into it.

In the quietude, Jorah's indifference was a stark contrast to Tanner's poised anticipation. The Manager's silhouette was framed by the expansive window behind him.

"How are things?" Tanner asked, "Has everyone been treating you well?"

Jorah finally lifted his gaze, letting it rest on the figure in the chair before him. Tanner was small in stature yet expansive in influence. If he was bothered in the least about what was happening, he didn't show it.

Still, Jorah knew that beneath Tanner's polished exterior coursed the shrewd currents of industry savvy. Jorah knew, this probing for pleasantries was surely a prelude to something more—a chess piece moving silently across the board.

"Everyone's a critic," Jorah replied, his voice low and even. A wry smile played at the edge of his lips. "Especially those who wield cameras like pitchforks," he added, tilting his head slightly as if trying to align Tanner's conversational gambit with his own expectations.

Tanner's response was a chuckle, soft and knowing. There was no surprise etched into the lines of his face—only the acknowledgment of a point scored in their verbal sparring. His fingers tapped lightly, drumming a silent rhythm on the leather armrest.

Jorah leaned back, mirroring Tanner's relaxed pose, but the set of his jaw told another story—one of readiness, of a fighter coiled to spring. This meeting was more than courtesy; it was strategy, and Jorah intended to play his part.

Taking his cue from his client, Tanner looked at Jorah. His gaze was steely, analytical, as if he were calculating Jorah's next outburst. "The execs are talking. Your image is..." He paused, searching for the right word, "volatile."

"Volatile," Jorah echoed, his voice laced with a mix of scorn and weariness. This was neither new nor surprising.

"Here's the thing," Tanner continued. He retrieved an item from his desk and walked over to the sofa. "They've got a proposal. Something... different for you." He handed the item to Jorah.

Keeping his eyes trained on Tanner, Jorah accepted the item. It was a script. The cover said, "The Protector."

He'd only scanned a few pages when his pupils shrank, and he tossed it to the ground like a hot potato.

"What's that?" Jorah pointed to the thing on the floor as though it was a demon.

"That." Tanner looked at it, "Is your new project."