SuperStar!

Inside the bus, away from the glass-shattering screams of the outside world, silence finally found Ethan. It wasn't immediate—at first, there was still the faint hum of fans in the distance, the echo of camera shutters, the faint tapping of notifications rattling his phone on the seat beside him. But one by one, he began shutting it all down.

With a simple flick, he dragged his thumb across the screen, switching his phone onto Do Not Disturb. The last buzz trembled against the leather seat, then stilled. The device dimmed to black, reflecting only his face back at him. Ethan leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes for a second, and exhaled, a small, victorious grin pulling at his lips.

"Finally… peace and quiet," he murmured, the words barely audible, but true enough to him.

The bus itself felt like a cocoon now. The rumble of the engine was low, almost soothing. The tinted windows shut the world away. No screaming, no flashes, no constant interruptions. Just him and the low hum of solitude.

Ethan slid from his seat and crossed to the equipment tucked neatly against the side of the bus. A portable workstation—pads, mixers, and interfaces—always traveled with him. It was his sanctuary, the place where the world stopped asking what's next and let him answer it on his own terms.

His hands hovered above the keys and pads like a painter brushing the air before the canvas. Then—tap. Tap-tap. A rhythm began, soft at first, tentative. He layered it with another, his fingertips quick, precise, and playful. Soon a beat was pulsing low in the speakers, a heartbeat inside the bus, bouncing against the walls.

His shoulders loosened. His lips curled upward. That grin—the one that didn't belong to the stage or the cameras—crept back across his face. Ethan was no longer the phenomenon, the idol, the number pulling in half a billion dollars. He was just a musician chasing sound.

The more the rhythm built, the deeper he leaned in. His fingers were alive, skipping across buttons, dragging knobs, pulling melodies from the machine like he was coaxing secrets from an old friend. A laugh slipped from him, light, genuine, as though the music itself had just cracked a joke he understood.

Without thinking, his mouth opened. Words—unplanned, unforced—slipped out on the beat:

"When the days are cold, and the cards are—"

His voice carried raw against the soft rhythm, imperfect but full, woven into the track he was building with his hands. His eyes fluttered shut, his body rocking ever so slightly in time. The music wrapped around him, and for the first time all night, he wasn't performing. He was feeling.

He could see it in his mind—the full song, the way the melody would soar, the way the crowd might one day scream it back to him. His fingers never stopped moving, feeding the loop, layering textures, giving life to something born only seconds ago.

And then—

The door clicked open. Light from the corridor cut into the dim, intimate glow of his workspace.

"Ethan," Dough's voice pushed in, brisk, already loaded with the weight of urgency. "You're ten minutes late. We need to move—now. The prime team is waiting for you about the next marketing rollout. The director for the new advert is outside, pacing. Vivienne's insisting she be involved—she says it'll affect the brand image, wants it tailored to your aesthetics personally. And after that, you've got the WEF interview at Davos lined up on call. It's all stacking."

Ethan's fingers froze mid-beat. His eyes snapped open. He slowly lifted his head, staring at Dough with a look so sharp it felt like a blade. A death glare.

The manager faltered. His words caught. He knew the look; it was Ethan's silent weapon, the one that said you're trespassing.

"Dough," Ethan said, his voice steady, low, almost calm. "Later. Push everything back. I'm busy now."

Dough blinked, adjusted his collar. "But this is very impor—"

Ethan's stare didn't waver. He leaned an inch closer, eyes locked, tone unflinching.

"THIS is important. Later, Dough."

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream outside. Finally, Dough exhaled, shoulders sagging.

"…No problem," he muttered, defeated.

Dough closed the door slowly, as though afraid to disturb the fragile quiet Ethan had demanded. The faint thud of the latch locking back into place finally sealed off the world outside.

Inside the tour bus's recording booth, silence lingered for a beat before Ethan let out a long, tired sigh. His hands rose to his face, rubbing at his eyes as if wiping away the weight of every demand pressing against him. He leaned back slightly, shoulders slack, then muttered under his breath, voice low and almost weary:

"Finally."

The word felt like a release, an exhale of relief.

His fingers fell back to the console, tapping lightly against the equipment, and then he whispered again, this time almost to himself, "So… where was I?"

He slid his headphones back on, pressing the cushioned cups tight over his ears, and the music filled him again—beats looping, echoes shimmering, layers building like waves. His body began to sway instinctively, shoulders rolling, head nodding with the rhythm. Ethan's hands danced across the controls, replaying a melody, layering in subtle touches, losing himself piece by piece. His lips parted, ready to sing, to finally let the emotion spill into the booth.

But just as his breath caught to form the first note—

Muffled voices seeped through the thin insulation of the bus door. Sharp, cutting, unmistakable.

"And you allowed him to just continue? Don't you know he has plenty of obligations? This isn't the time!"

Ethan froze mid-motion, fingers hovering over the keys. His eyes flicked toward the door, a crease forming between his brows. The voice—it couldn't be mistaken.

Rebecca.

He straightened slightly, listening harder.

Dough's voice followed, hesitant, defensive. "I know, but he said he's busy. Plus… he looked to be making music, so I didn't want to disturb."

The words had barely left Dough's mouth before Rebecca's voice cut back in, sharp as a blade. "There is a time and place for everything. And right now is not the time for him to lock himself up in the studio."

Dough tried again, almost pleading, "But—he's making music—"

Rebecca shut him down instantly. "No matter."

The words landed heavy, final.

Ethan clenched his jaw. He could already feel the storm brewing on the other side of that door. His fingers stilled completely, hovering over the console like suspended lightning, and he leaned back in his seat, annoyance already prickling at him.

The door creaked open without a knock.

Four figures entered in a sharp procession. Rebecca at the front, heels clicking against the floor, posture stiff with authority. Behind her, two assistants flanked like shadows, tablets and notepads in hand, already prepared for whatever instructions she might fire off. Dough trailed reluctantly at the side, his expression written with unease, eyes darting between Ethan and Rebecca as if anticipating a collision.

Rebecca's gaze locked on Ethan. She didn't soften it. He didn't either.

Ethan, seated with headphones half-slipped around his neck, looked up at her with a glare that made his irritation plain. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had been interrupted too many times, someone who had reached the end of his patience.

Rebecca broke the silence first. "Ethan, I heard you want to move all your appointments for today."

"Yes," Ethan replied curtly, voice clipped like the crack of glass. "Thank you. Also—close the door on your way out. Thanks."

The coldness of his tone hung in the air.

Rebecca blinked, momentarily thrown. She wasn't used to being dismissed so bluntly , Bit she knew Ethan wasn't like this regularly seems it's all getting to him. Clearing her throat, she tried to steady herself. "Ethan, the director is already around. It wouldn't be good to leave him waiting. And then there's the interview with WEF at Davos. This isn't something small—it's international. Very important for your profile."

Ethan's jaw tightened. His reply came sharper now, his words striking like a whip.

"Last time you all said the same thing—meeting, meeting, interview, another meeting. You've been saying it for weeks months even. And every time, it's the same: I get pulled away, dragged around, pushed from one room to the next. And for what? So you can parade me around while the one thing that matters most—this—" he gestured at the console, at the half-finished track glowing across the screen— "gets left behind."

His voice rose slightly, irritation flaring. "This is the main thing. This is why the meetings even exist in the first place. The music is the reason I'm here. Not the schedules. Not the press. Not the marketing. Its why anyone of you even have any jobs here in the first place so can i please GET BACK TO IT."

His eyes burned as he said it, sharp and unyielding, every syllable carried with the weight of truth he'd been holding back too long.

Rebecca let out a long, controlled sigh, her eyes flicking briefly toward the assistants who hovered in the background like shadows waiting for command. Without raising her voice, she gave a small wave of her hand.

"Out," she said firmly.

The two assistants exchanged a quick glance before retreating without question, their heels clicking lightly against the floor as they disappeared through the doorway. Dough, however, lingered by the frame, his weight shifting from one leg to the other. His brows knit, worry spilling across his face as if he was silently asking Rebecca if it was truly wise to leave Ethan alone in this mood.

Rebecca turned her head slowly, meeting his hesitation with a sharp look."You too, Dough," she added, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Dough's lips curved into an awkward, apologetic smile, almost as if he wanted to say something on Ethan's behalf but knew better. He slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Silence filled the studio, heavy and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint hum of equipment. Rebecca's gaze settled back on Ethan. He hadn't moved, still sitting there with his arms folded, his face tight with irritation. The weight of his stare made the air between them brittle.

She exhaled again, softer this time, and when she finally spoke, her voice carried none of the authority she had moments earlier."What's the matter?" she asked gently.

Ethan pressed his palms against his knees, leaned forward, and drew in a deep breath. He exhaled in frustration before muttering, "Sorry for how I acted. I just…" He rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion bleeding through every motion. "I'm tired, Rebecca. Worn out. All I want is to step away from that side of things for a while and get back to just making music. Isn't that what all this is about in the first place?"

His tone sharpened as the words tumbled out, his voice rising with emotion."For so long, I can't even remember the last time I had an hour to myself—unless I'm asleep. Every second I'm awake, its meetings, calls, events, obligations sound checks, fan meeting, poster signing. And I keep thinking… isn't the music supposed to be the driving force? The reason any of this exists. If I can't breathe, if I can't write or compose, then what's the point?"

Rebecca listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable. When he finally paused, her reply came softly but firmly."Ethan, no one is saying you can't," she began. "No one is taking away your music or denying you time for yourself."

Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but Rebecca was quicker, cutting across his words with a raised hand."But," she pressed, her tone growing firmer, "there is a time and a place for everything."

Her eyes softened for a moment, but her words carried the weight of discipline."I know this is getting too much. I know it's overwhelming. I promise you—I'll work on making your schedule more conducive, give you free time where you can breathe again. But, Ethan…" she leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowing, "you signed up for this."

Ethan's jaw tightened, his body tensing as if he was preparing to argue, but before he could speak, Rebecca pressed on, not giving him the chance.

"Didn't you say you wanted to be the biggest musician on the planet? Didn't you say you wanted to be a legend, to make your name echo whenever the word 'music' is spoken?"

Her voice grew sharper, each word deliberate."Well, for all that, your music—no matter how good it is—is not enough. Yes, it's important, but those meetings, those interviews, those public appearances… they're just as important at this level. Especially now, with the Grammys upon us."

Rebecca straightened, her tone now carrying the authority of someone who had rehearsed this truth a hundred times."Music can lead you here, Ethan, but this"—she gestured vaguely toward the outside world—"this is what keeps you here. This is what stabilizes you. You're in a delicate position now, and every interview, every legacy piece we've arranged, it all matters with the Grammys preparations we are doing it matters now more than ever don't forget our goal for it Music alone wont achieve that. Dough, myself, the entire team—we're working to make you not just successful, but the greatest musician there ever was."

Rebecca's words landed heavy. Ever was.Ethan blinked at her, his chest tightening. He leaned forward, staring at her like she had just spoken something too audacious to belong in the room.

"Ever was?" he repeated, his voice low, stunned.

Rebecca only smiled—small, knowing, almost amused. She tilted her head and spoke with the confidence of someone who had already run the calculations, already seen the ending written in her mind."Yes. Ever was. You know how talented you are, Ethan. And I know what I can do with your talents. What I can't do. What's possible, what's not. With you, it's easy. The path is clear. You just have to trust us. Trust your team they might have small issues, but I can vow they are all really good. Trust me. When this is over—after the tour—I promise you, you'll have a massive break. Time to vanish. Time to breathe. Work when you want, stop when you want, disappear for months if you feel like it. But right now?" she leaned forward, her voice soft, persuasive. "Right now, please. Let's go."

The fire in Ethan's eyes dimmed into something tired, resigned. He let out a long breath, running his hand across his face before lowering it."…Okay," he said finally, his voice stripped of fight. "I'm coming."

Rebecca's lips curved into satisfaction. "That's it, champ." She stood smoothly, smoothing down her blazer, and walked to the door. The moment she opened it, her tone changed like a switch, brisk and commanding as she began issuing sharp instructions to the assistants waiting outside.

Inside, Ethan stayed seated for a moment, staring blankly at the carpet. The silence pressed on him. He sighed, heavier this time, and slowly got up. His eyes drifted to the small leather-bound book resting on the table—the lyrics book, the one place that still felt like his. Carefully, almost reverently, he picked it up, turned it over in his hands, and then slid it back inside the hidden safe. He twisted the lock until it clicked, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

For a second, he just stood there. His fingers grazed the edge of his equipment—mixers, headphones, the console—all the things that used to mean freedom but now only reminded him of how little time he truly had with them. His shoulders sagged, and his expression softened into something almost fragile, almost sad.

He grabbed his phone off the table. The black screen reflected his tired face back at him. He forced his lips into a smile—fake, mechanical, practiced—and held it there until it looked believable.

Only then did he pull himself together, square his shoulders, and step outside.