SuperStar!

Inside the airport, near the wide glass panels of the departure stands, the world outside painted itself in quiet poetry. A silver plane was drifting further and further into the horizon, swallowed by the deep amber and violet glow of the setting sun. The sky looked like fire bleeding into velvet, a perfect backdrop for goodbyes.

But Dough, Ethan Jones's assistant, didn't notice any of it. The beauty of the sunset was wasted on him. The tranquil hush that lingered over the terminal, the soft rolling of suitcases, the gentle hum of overhead announcements—all of it was dismissed by his restless mind. Even the melancholy written across his boss's face, the weight of something unspoken, went largely unnoticed.

Instead, Dough had his nose buried in his notes, reciting schedules and commitments in his usual monotone. "So, sir, after we land we've got a meeting with the Prime team—"

He was cut off.

"Hey, Dough."

The voice wasn't sharp. It wasn't impatient. It was quiet, almost fragile. Ethan hadn't moved—his cap pulled low, his hoodie drawn forward, face half-hidden so no fans would recognize him—but his eyes were fixed on the glass, on the fading outline of the plane that was now just a dot against the canvas of evening.

Dough froze, the interruption catching him off guard.

Ethan's lips barely moved as he asked, voice lower this time, almost as if he was speaking to himself:"The Oscars… would I be able to get a seat?"

Dough blinked, confused, unsure if he'd heard correctly. He tilted his head slightly, muttering, "Pardon? The… Oscars?"

Ethan didn't answer. His silence spoke louder than words, his gaze still locked on the empty sky beyond the glass.

Dough cleared his throat nervously. "If it's the Oscars, of course we can. If we call Jessica or even reach out to the committee directly, I'm sure they'd be delighted to have you, sir."

He forced a polite smile, but inside his mind was spinning. The Oscars? What the hell is he talking about?

His thoughts tumbled into a familiar cycle of complaints. I told my sister I didn't want this job. I told her all these stars are insane. But no, she said, 'It'll be good for you, Dough. Go make money. Go make something of yourself.' And now look at me, babysitting a superstar while he stares out at airplanes and asks about the Oscars. God, can't I just stay at home and play Call of Duty like a normal person?

He sighed inwardly. Dough, you're already in this. You know the motto—once you take a job, kiss butt, do it to the maximum, and if that's not enough… kiss butt again.

That thought actually made him smirk despite himself.

He shifted, checked his phone quickly, and then raised his head. "Sir—sorry, Ethan—about the Oscars. It's possible. Very possible. But…" He scrolled through his calendar, double-checking dates. "Like I thought—it falls right between your concerts. It's on the 27th, and you're locked in for New York on the 26th and New Jersey on the 29th. So, I'm not—"

Before he could finish, Ethan cut across him again.

Ethan didn't even turn away from the glass when he spoke, his voice low and calm, almost like it was floating with the faint hum of the airport around them.

"Then it's possible," he said. "Help me get the tickets and the space. Thanks, Dough."

Dough was standing a little to the side, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. His mouth twitched, corners jerking upward into a forced smile. "No problem at all."

But before he could relax, Ethan added, with the same offhand coolness of a man ordering coffee,"Oh—and Dough… make sure I get the best seat in the house."

Dough's head snapped up. For a moment, his professional smile almost cracked into a grimace, but he caught himself. Inside, however, his mind was already on fire.

The best seat in the house? his thoughts screamed. How? HOW? His imagination spiraled—he could practically see the seating chart of the Oscars glowing in red, mocking him. Those seats are locked down months in advance! Nominees, directors, producers, studio execs… every single chair planned and arranged down to the last detail. And now this superstar wants the best one? What am I supposed to do, bump Leonardo DiCaprio or Meryl Streep into the back row?

His chest tightened. And it gets worse. If I have to make calls… that means Rebecca. That terrifying woman. That demon in heels. My God, would I really have to ask her? She'd skin me alive before she let me rearrange the Oscars' seating chart.

Dough sighed silently, shoulders sagging just a fraction before he caught himself. This is exactly why I told my sister I didn't want this job. Stars are insane. All of them. I could be at home right now, headset on, playing Call of Duty. But no—no, I have to 'make something of myself.' And here I am, about to beg Hollywood royalty for a chair.

And yet, through all the chaos in his head, his motto returned—the one thing that kept him sane:Start the job? Kiss butt. Do the job? Kiss butt. If that's not enough… kiss butt again.

So with a smile smooth enough to win awards of its own, he simply said, "No problem."

Ethan finally turned to look at him then, eyes warm, his face softening into a genuine smile. "Thanks, man. Just help me arrange this whole thing—I really appreciate it."

Dough gave a stiff nod, already composing the frantic emails he'd have to send.

But Ethan's mind wasn't on logistics, tickets, or terrifying publicists. No, his thoughts drifted elsewhere—lighter, warmer, softer. She shouldn't be angry if I sit near her, right? I'd just say it was the program's arrangement.

A small laugh escaped his lips, almost boyish. Sitting beside Sydney… what else could possibly be the best seat in the house?

The boss and his employee—two men walking side by side into a storm of their own making. One blinded by the sweetness of a honeymoon-like daze, the other shackled by the chains of professional survival. A misunderstanding born from youth, romance, and the desperate urge to please.

But the true outcome of it all—the comedy and the chaos—would only reveal itself at the 94th Academy Awards, beneath the golden lights of the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles.

As the two of them stepped out of the airport, Ethan remained hidden beneath his cover. The fabric hung loose around his shoulders, the hood low over his forehead, making sure not a single passerby caught more than a shadow of his face. The disguise worked well; to the ordinary eye, he was just another traveler shielding himself from the cameras, from the stares.

Marcus, Devon, and Richard fanned out naturally, forming that quiet, practiced perimeter. They didn't hover—hovering drew attention—but they stayed close enough to bridge the distance in a heartbeat if anything unexpected flared. Their movements were casual, like friends strolling beside a stranger, but their eyes were sharp, flicking across the crowd, reading body language, scanning for that spark of curiosity that always lit up before recognition.

The murmur of the crowd thickened the moment Ethan neared the curb. By the time he walked past the sliding glass doors toward the rented SUV, people had begun to pause mid-step. A couple of phones tilted upward, catching angles. Questions swirled in the half-whispered tones of travelers and airport staff. Who's that? Why the cover? Why the men around him?

But before the simmering interest could boil over, before the curious ones could circle and form their guesses into certainty, Marcus and the others closed in smoothly. The timing was exact—a rehearsed rhythm. They shielded Ethan and his companion in a funnel of movement, guiding them straight into the SUV. Door clicks shut. Engines rumble awake. Within seconds, the two black SUVs merged onto the road, leaving only fragments of speculation behind, lost in the chaos of departures and arrivals.

Inside, the air shifted—safe, contained, quiet. Ethan leaned back, exhaling faintly, and let the disguise sink into the leather seat. The city rolled past outside the tinted windows, anonymous faces vanishing into the blur.

By the time they reached the tour buses, the scene had changed entirely. Where once the early tours had been a humble gathering—just Ethan, Max, Rebecca, and the drivers—now it felt like an entire ecosystem had sprung up around him. He was used to it by now. Gone were the days of small vans and long silences. In their place came convoys of five gleaming mega-buses, each one housing its own slice of the operation.

When Ethan stepped down, he saw it—the bus doors open, people flowing between them like veins of a living machine. Musicians carrying cases. Assistants with clipboards. Staff shouting directions into radios. Jessica was still here, moving briskly with that sharp efficiency she wore like perfume. Bill was present too, his son trailing him, and even the son's girlfriend tagging along. It had all grown so much bigger than before.

The buses themselves had been shifted earlier in the morning, parked neatly near an open stretch of fencing. And there, just beyond the barriers, the fans had gathered. They stood packed shoulder to shoulder, pressed against metal railings, their hands raised high with phones and banners, the air vibrating with their screams. Many wore tour survivor shirts, faces painted in neon streaks, voices already raw from shouting.

And when Ethan stepped from the SUV and glanced over—he heard it in full.

"ETHANNNN!""WE LOVE YOU!""ETHAN—PLEASE LOOK OVER!""COME HERE—JUST ONE PICTURE!"

One voice cut above the rest, desperate and distinct.

"ETHAN! I'M ZARA! I'm your sister's friend—we go to the same school!"

The sentence pierced through the sea of sound, strange and startling, almost personal. Ethan froze for a half-second, his head tilting slightly in disbelief. before just shaking his head he was already getting numbed to the extremes some fans could take

Ethan couldn't help but smile. For all the chaos, there was something touching in how much they gave of themselves just to be noticed. He lifted a hand, waving gently, his covered face tilting toward them. The gesture was small, but the reaction was explosive—shrieks doubled, tears flowed, and phones shot into the air to capture what to them was a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

He had wanted to do more. Part of him itched to step out of the bus queue, cross over, scribble a few autographs, take a couple of selfies, maybe even exchange a word with "Zara." He imagined how wide her eyes would go if he actually said her name back to her.

But Dough, ever the shadow of reality, had leaned in earlier, reminding him with that clipped tone: "Sir, the schedule is tight. If we stop, we'll fall behind. There's no room for delays."

So Ethan contented himself with those few waves, the kind that carried both apology and affection, before stepping inside. The screams followed him even as the bus doors hissed shut, muffling the chaos into a dull roar. His heart ached a little at denying them, but the show was bigger than any one encounter.

Inside, the air-conditioning hummed, a stark contrast to the frenzy outside. Ethan dropped into his seat, gazing out of the tinted glass one last time as the caravan of buses rolled out. Fans chased for a few desperate yards before fading into the distance, their banners still bobbing in the air.

The wheels turned, and so did the night. The concert continued.

Five hundred million—halfway.Halfway to the most staggering number in touring history.Halfway to the record that would etch his name forever in the books.

And next up, the biggest stadium tour in United States history awaited him, a colossus of steel and light, ready to hold more souls in more than one night than any venue had ever dared or any artist attempted.

The concert continues.