~ Rylan ~

I threw my phone on the bed, flopped down dramatically, and stared at the ceiling.

"Kill me," I muttered to the chandelier.

It didn't.

But Daniel Gardner might.

It all started exactly three hours ago when Sandra, my agent and part-time evil sorceress, decided that sleep was optional and that news—the Hollywood kind that ruins your life—should be delivered at the crack of ungodly o'clock.

"You're gonna love me," she purred like a Bond villain.

"I doubt that," I croaked, half-asleep and fully annoyed.

"Rylan, listen. You booked it. Iron Mercy. It's happening. They want you for Ash Blackwell."

Ash Blackwell. The antihero. The brooding, tortured, vaguely bisexual vigilante with sharp cheekbones and daddy issues. Basically, me in leather.

Then she said it. The curse words that still echo in my skull like a tragic pop hook.

"You'll be co-starring with Daniel Gardner."

And that's when I died a little inside.

Daniel Gardner is like if a golden retriever starred in an Oscar-bait coming-of-age movie and got cast in every rom-com afterward just for breathing prettily. He's the industry's favorite sensitive boy next door with exactly two facial expressions: longing and misunderstood.

Also, we hate each other.

Publicly.

My followers love it. His fans write fanfiction about it. The tabloids call it a "frenemy situation," but that implies there's a drop of warmth underneath all the passive-aggressive shade. Spoiler: there's not.

Last time we saw each other, I may or may not have "accidentally" spilled a latte on his $900 cashmere sweater at a GQ party. In my defense, he called my music "derivative." Which is rude. And only half true.

And now, apparently, we're saving the world together. In matching spandex. For the next six months.

I sighed loudly to no one. My apartment was too quiet—just me, the chandelier, and my steadily declining will to live.

This is Hollywood. This is my life.

Kill me.

I briefly considered Googling "how to fake your own death convincingly" but figured Daniel already had that covered in his daily acting range. Besides, the algorithm would probably just recommend his latest film: Dying to Remember, or whatever melodramatic nonsense he'd fake-cried through last awards season.

Ash Blackwell. Ash. Blackwell. Even his name sounds like someone who keeps a tragic journal and broods under moonlight. And I'm supposed to be him? I mean, sure, I've got the jawline and the trauma, but I always imagined my superhero debut coming with a little more... I don't know... dignity? Maybe a cooler co-star and less emotional whiplash?

But no. Instead, I get Daniel Gardner, the human equivalent of an oat milk latte. Bland, overpriced, and somehow everyone's comfort beverage.

And now we're supposed to be rivals turned allies on screen. Which is great, because in real life, the only thing turning is my stomach every time I hear his voice. God help the poor director trying to film a scene where we "reluctantly trust each other." That man's gonna need therapy. And probably a helmet.

I rolled over and buried my face into a pillow that still smelled like coconut shampoo and poor decisions. Why me? Why this? Why Daniel freaking Gardner?

My phone buzzed. Probably Sandra again, ready to "coach me through my attitude" which, fun fact, is legally classified as a natural disaster in some states.

I peeked at the screen.

A text.

From him.

Daniel Gardner: Looking forward to working with you :)

I stared at the smiley face like it had personally insulted my ancestors. Looking forward? To what? My inevitable public meltdown? His next People magazine cover titled "How I Melted the Ice Prince: Daniel on Empathy, Eyeliner, and Enemies to Lovers"?

I didn't respond. Not because I was the bigger person. But because I was busy typing "can you catch a flight to Mars" into Expedia.

This is my life.
This is my nightmare.
This is Iron Mercy.
And mercy?
Nowhere to be found.

I briefly considered responding with something mature, like a middle finger emoji or a voice note of me gagging. But restraint is a virtue. Or so my therapist keeps saying. I deleted the draft text and threw my phone again—not out of rage this time, but dramatic necessity.

"Looking forward to working with you," I mimicked in the fakest, most Stepford smile voice I could muster. "Can't wait to pretend we don't both want to push each other into traffic."

I dragged myself off the bed like I was auditioning for a zombie reboot and shuffled to the kitchen. My fridge had two yogurts, a questionable container of pad thai, and a bottle of white wine I'd been saving for a celebration. Cute. Past me really was an optimist.

I grabbed the wine.

Pouring a glass at 3 a.m. isn't alcoholism if it's for emotional support.

I took a sip and stared at the flyer Sandra had couriered over—yes, couriered, because apparently we live in a Regency novel now. It had the official Iron Mercy logo, a dramatic black-and-silver thing that screamed "serious acting will happen here," and in bold, cinematic lettering:

STARRING RYLAN JAMES AS ASH BLACKWELL aka STEELE.
AND DANIEL GARDNER AS GAVIN HUGHES aka MERCY.

MERCY. Of course. He gets the hero with the charming smirk and sparkly powers, while I'm the morally gray angst goblin in leather and pain. Typecasting is alive and well.

Oh, and the press tour? Starts in two weeks.

Which means interviews. Photo shoots. Red carpets. Panels.
With him.

Just me, Daniel, and a thousand publicists trying to pretend we don't make each other spontaneously combust. And the fans? They'll eat it up. The fan cams. The "accidental hand brushes." The conspiracy theories about how our tension is just "repressed attraction."

Spoiler alert: it's not.
It's just repressed murder.

I grabbed my phone again. Sandra had texted.

Sandra: "Behave. Smile. Don't set anything on fire until Comic-Con."

Too late, Sandra.
I already lit my hopes and dreams on fire.
And guess what?
Daniel Gardner's holding the match.