Chapter 1:

The royal room was massive, with a high ceiling and walls that seemed to stretch forever. The entire space was painted in shades of brown, from the dark wooden floor to the deep, earthy panels that covered the walls. There were no splashes of color anywhere, no paintings or bright decorations to break the monotony.

To anyone else, it might have seemed dull, but for Him, it was exactly how he liked it. The absence of vibrant colors made it easier for him to live. He didn’t see the world the way others did, and in this room, there was nothing to remind him of what he couldn’t see.

The bed stood in the middle of the room, large enough to feel like a throne. It was a king-sized masterpiece with a sturdy, dark wooden frame, polished to a shine. The headboard was tall and carved with simple, clean lines that spoke of elegance and power.

The sheets were soft and smooth, a mix of silk and cotton in shades of brown and beige. A thick comforter lay on top, perfectly arranged, and the pillows were stacked neatly, as if the bed had never been touched. Despite its neatness, it was clear the bed was meant for one person. The space around it was empty, echoing the loneliness that seemed to linger in the air.

The room was quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock on the bedside table. The table was small and simple, holding only the alarm clock and a single book with a dark brown cover. He lay sprawled on the bed, the sheets rumpled around him.

He was shirtless, his lean and toned body stretched out comfortably. His skin was fair with a subtle, honey-almond glow, catching the soft light that peeked through the edges of the curtains. His dark hair was messy, as though he had been tossing and turning, but it only added to his rugged charm.

As the alarm clock rang, the piercing sound broke through the heavy silence of the room. He stirred, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes slowly opened. His dark, almond-shaped eyes were deep and piercing, though they carried a shadow of something unspoken, something heavy.

He blinked a few times, adjusting to the dim light, and then lazily stretched out his arm to stop the alarm. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost as if he was reluctant to start the day.

He sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. His gaze swept over the room, but it wasn’t with admiration. To him, the world was always muted. The colors he could see were limited to shades of gray, black, and brown.

The vibrant greens, reds, and blues that others talked about were nothing but words to him. Even if there were colors in his room, they wouldn’t matter. The dark tones of his mansion matched the way he saw the world, simple, restrained, and devoid of distractions.

Rising from the bed, he made his way to the bathroom. The cold wooden floor creaked slightly under his feet as he walked. The bathroom was as grand as the bedroom, with polished stone floors and walls.

The sink and countertops were crafted from dark marble, while the large mirror stretched across one wall. A glass shower stood in one corner, its edges sharp and clean. Like the rest of his space, it was dominated by earthy tones.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. He didn’t flinch as the warm stream hit his skin. Instead, he stood there for a moment, letting the heat roll over his body. The steam filled the room quickly, clouding the glass and softening the harsh lines of the space.

As the water cascaded down, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The warmth was comforting, though he didn’t allow himself to relax completely. He was always alert, always in control.

Even in moments like this, his mind was sharp. He thought about the day ahead, planning every move. His arrogance and coldness weren’t just traits; they were survival mechanisms. He had built a reputation on being calculating and manipulative, someone who always got what he wanted. And he wore that reputation like armor, keeping the world at a distance.

Once the shower was done, he reached for a towel. Wrapping it around his waist, he stepped out and moved toward the sink. His steps were slow and deliberate, each one echoing with an air of confidence that bordered on intimidation. His reflection stared back at him from the fogged-up mirror. For a moment, he simply stood there, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he studied himself.

He wiped the mirror with a hand, clearing away the condensation. The face looking back at him was as striking as ever. His skin glowed faintly in the warm light, his sharp jawline and high cheekbones adding to his commanding presence.

His dark eyes, nearly black, held a depth that was both alluring and unsettling. They were the kind of eyes that could freeze someone in place with a single glance, revealing nothing while demanding everything. His lips, set in a firm line, carried no warmth. Even when he smiled, it was a cold, calculated expression that hinted at danger rather than kindness.

On the counter, a small case held his contact lenses. He reached for it, his movements steady and precise. The lenses were a necessity, not a preference. He placed them carefully over his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust. The world didn’t change much when he wore them, but they sharpened what little he could see, making the muted colors slightly more defined.

He leaned closer to the mirror, his fingers brushing through his still-damp hair. It fell messily over his forehead, but he didn’t bother fixing it. The tousled look suited him, adding to the air of recklessness that seemed to follow him wherever he went. It wasn’t the kind of recklessness born of carelessness, it was calculated, deliberate, a reflection of a man who knew how to play with fire and never get burned.

Park Sung-hoon straightened up, his towel still wrapped securely around his waist. He took one last look at himself in the mirror, his expression unreadable. There was no pride or vanity in his gaze, just a cold, assessing stare. He wasn’t looking at his reflection to admire it. He was studying it, as if he were a chess piece in a game only he understood.

The room around him was quiet again, the only sound the faint drip of water from the shower. Sung-hoon turned away from the mirror, his steps confident as he moved back toward the bedroom. The day had begun, and with it, another chance to assert his control over the world.

The walls were paneled in rich, dark wood, almost black in the faint morning light, their grain etched with an intricate, nearly imperceptible design that added depth without disrupting the austere atmosphere. It embodied the elegance of power and control, with no room for frivolity or unnecessary color to detract from its somber sophistication.

He walked toward his closet, the soft padding of his bare feet muffled by the plush rug that stretched across his bedroom floor. The closet doors were tall, nearly reaching the ceiling, and opened with a faint creak as he pushed them apart. Inside, the space was nothing short of luxurious, resembling a private boutique rather than a simple wardrobe.

Rows of perfectly tailored suits hung in meticulous order, their colors ranging from sharp blacks and grays to muted blues and deep greens. Long trench coats with clean cuts lined one section, their fabrics ranging from heavy wool to light cashmere. Beside them, high-neck sweaters and turtlenecks were stacked neatly, exuding an air of old money and timeless elegance. 

His eyes scanned the rows. The muted, monochromatic world he had lived in before faded, replaced by a burst of vivid colors. The deep reds, emerald greens, and navy blues stood out like flames, their brilliance foreign yet intriguing to him. Even with the clarity his lenses gave him, Sung-hoon’s expression remained cold and disinterested.

Colors didn’t impress him, they were just as useless to him as people's presence in his life. He pulled out a dark charcoal suit paired with a black turtleneck, the outfit simple yet exuding authority and control. He dressed quickly, his movements precise and calculated, and finished the look with a long black coat that brushed the tops of his polished shoes. 

Satisfied, he stepped out of the closet and made his way downstairs. The grand staircase spiraled gracefully, its dark mahogany railing polished to a sheen. The mansion was silent, the kind of silence that felt heavy and deliberate, as though even the walls knew not to disturb him.

The helping staff moved about discreetly, careful to avoid being seen. Sung-hoon had made it clear, he didn’t tolerate idle chatter, unnecessary greetings, or even the wrong glance in his direction. To them, he was more of a ghost than a man, and that’s exactly how he liked it. 

As he reached the bottom of the staircase, his secretary stood waiting in the foyer. She was dressed in a crisp black suit, her notepad held firmly in her hands. Her posture was stiff, her gaze fixed on the floor as she waited for him. The moment he approached, she bowed slightly before speaking. 

“Mr. Park,” she began cautiously, her voice low but steady, “your mother wishes to speak with you.” 

Sung-hoon’s jaw clenched at her words, his sharp features hardening instantly. He didn’t reply at first, simply glaring at her with a gaze that could freeze someone in their tracks.

Slowly, he stepped closer to her, his movements deliberate and intimidating. When he was close enough, he lifted a single finger and used it to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“Didn’t I tell you to speak only when asked?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone. “이해가 안 되시나요?” (Don't you understand?)

The secretary’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded quickly, not daring to utter a word. Sung-hoon scoffed, the sound laced with disdain, and let his hand drop. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the dining room. The secretary followed behind him at a safe distance, careful not to get too close or too far. 

The dining table was long and elegant, made of dark wood and polished to perfection. A single plate was set at one end, the rest of the table bare. The staff had already prepared his breakfast, a spread of food that looked almost too perfect to eat.

Sung-hoon sat down, his movements smooth yet commanding, and began eating in silence. The secretary stood behind him, holding her notepad tightly as she waited. After a few moments, Sung-hoon glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Call my mother.”

She nodded and quickly pulled out her phone, dialing the number. As soon as the call connected, she handed it to him and stepped back. Sung-hoon brought the phone to his ear, leaning back slightly in his chair as he spoke. 

“왜 전화했어?” he said curtly, skipping any form of greeting. (Why did you call?) 

His mother’s voice was calm but firm on the other end. “성훈아, 또 그렇게 무례하게 시작하니? 나한테 조금 더 예의를 갖춰.” (Sung-hoon, must you always start so rudely? Show me a little respect.) 

“예의? 내가 예의를 보일 이유가 없어,” he shot back, his tone cold. (Respect? I have no reason to show it.) 

“네가 그렇게 얘기할수록 내가 너한테 더 실망스러워. 오늘은 다른 얘기로 전화했으니까.” (The more you talk like that, the more disappointed I am in you. But I didn’t call to argue today.) 

Sung-hoon rolled his eyes, already growing impatient. “무슨 얘기? 빨리 해.” (What is it? Just say it.) 

“이번 주말에 소개팅을 잡아놨어. 가야 해.” (I’ve arranged a blind date for you this weekend. You have to go.) 

He froze, his grip tightening on the phone. “뭐라고?” he said sharply, his other hand playing with the food in front of him. (What did you say?) 

“너도 이제 나이가 있으니 사람을 만나야지. 더 이상 핑계 대지 말고 가.” (You’re old enough to meet someone. No more excuses... just go.) 

“젠장, 블라인드 데이트를 하기 전에 나한테 물어봤어?” he snapped, his voice rising. As in anger he stabbed his food on his plate. He held the bridge of his nose before, shaking his head slightly. (Damn it, did you ask me before fixing a blind date?) 

“네가 다른 사람들처럼 보통의 삶을 살길 바라는 게 뭐가 나빠? 넌 언제나 벽을 쌓고, 사람들을 멀리하잖아.” (What’s so bad about wanting you to live a normal life like everyone else? You’re always building walls and keeping people away.) 

“나한테 사람들은 전부 똑같아. 다 가식적이고 돈이나 권력에 관심 있는 쓰레기야.” (To me, people are all the same. Fake and only interested in money or power.) 

“그래도 이번엔 가. 내가 잡은 약속이야.” (You’re going this time. I arranged it.) 

“씨발, 이런 짓 그만해!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. (Damn it, stop doing this!)

Before his mother could respond, Sung-hoon ended the call abruptly, tossing the phone onto the table. His breathing was heavy, his face twisted with anger. Without thinking, he grabbed the edge of his plate and hurled it across the room. The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the dining room, and the staff froze in the distance, too terrified to move. 

“씨발, 개같은 상황.” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. (Fuck, what a messed-up situation.) 

The secretary flinched but didn’t dare say a word. Sung-hoon glared at her briefly before standing up, his coat billowing slightly as he turned. “Clean it up.” he ordered coldly, gesturing to the mess. 

With that, he stormed out of the dining room, his footsteps echoing down the empty halls. The tension in the air was suffocating, leaving everyone in his wake too afraid to even breathe.

Sung-hoon stepped outside, the crisp morning air hitting his face as he walked towards the garden. His hands, still tense from the conversation with his mother, fished into his coat pocket. He pulled out the small bottle of eye drops that he always carried with him, a necessity for someone like him.

He tilted his head back slightly, his gaze fixed on the sky as he gently squeezed a drop into each eye, the liquid cool against his irritated pupils. The world around him, still muted, remained as it always was. He sighed deeply, the weight of the day pressing down on him already.

His eyes flicked toward his black Bugatti parked at the edge of the garden, its sleek body reflecting the morning sunlight in an almost mocking way. He stood there for a moment, lost in thought, before he began to count.

“1… 2… 3…” His voice was a low murmur, the counting an attempt to center himself, to calm the storm that always raged inside.

“4… 5… 6…” His hands flexed at his sides, the tension never quite leaving.

“7… 8… 9…” By the time he finished, the moment of respite had passed.

The sound of footsteps snapped him out of his focus, and he turned to see his secretary running towards him. She arrived breathlessly, opening the door to the car with swift precision. Sung-hoon’s dark eyes locked onto her for a split second before he climbed into the backseat without a word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the engine roared to life.

“Drive,” he said curtly, the word laced with authority.

Without a reply, his secretary started the drive towards Parkhaven Entertainment, his company. The streets of New York blurred past as they moved toward the heart of his empire. Sung-hoon stared out the window, his mind already focused on the day ahead. The meeting with his mother had soured his mood, but there was little time for lingering anger. There was work to be done.

Parkhaven Entertainment stood at the center of the city, a towering 25-floor building that seemed to defy the skyline. The company’s design was striking, its shape resembling a video camera with a reel coming out of it.

A nod to its roots in the entertainment industry, yet sleek and modern enough to embody Sung-hoon’s cold, calculating nature. It was the type of structure that demanded attention, the kind that seemed to say, “This is where power resides.”

When they arrived, the car came to a stop in front of the grand entrance, and he stepped out, his long black coat swirling around him. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. The entire staff, from the receptionists to the high-ranking executives, froze in their places.

No one dared to speak or move. They simply bowed, acknowledging his presence. He didn’t even break his stride. He gave them a brief nod, signaling them to continue with their tasks. His gaze was cold, unfeeling, and as he walked toward the elevator, it was clear that no one would dare speak to him unless spoken to.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside, the soft chime of the door closing the only sound breaking the silence. His secretary pressed the button for the middle floor, where his office awaited. The ride was swift.

The hum of the elevator and background to the thoughts racing through his mind. He was already mentally preparing for the day ahead, scheduling, meetings, business deals. The blind date would be an inconvenience, but it was something he would endure.

When the elevator finally reached the middle floor, the doors opened to reveal his office, his office was inside the main lenses of the building structure which was a camera shape. His cabin was the epitome of minimalistic luxury, a modern space dominated by dark wood accents, polished surfaces, and large windows that offered a panoramic view of the city below.

The room was spacious, designed to reflect the vastness of his control over everything. It was not a place for comfort or warmth; it was a place to rule, to execute decisions that would shape the future of his empire. He walked in, barely sparing a glance at the sleek furniture or the carefully arranged decor.

His secretary followed him in, quietly shutting the door behind her. He moved to his desk, his chair waiting for him like a throne, a seat that allowed him to oversee everything. He sat down, his posture perfect, and then glanced up at his secretary.

“Start with today’s schedule,” he said, his tone sharp.

His secretary, used to his coldness, nodded and began reading from her notepad.

“Your first meeting is with the marketing team, regarding the new ad campaign for the upcoming pop star group debut. After that, you’ll meet with the investors from Blue Sky Productions, then there’s a check-in with the development team for the new app launch. Finally, we have the preparation for the blind date tonight.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The blind date... Get that over with quickly. I have no patience for such nonsense.”

His secretary didn’t respond, knowing better than to comment on his distaste for such matters. She continued.

“The marketing team is waiting in the conference room, and the investors are expected at 11 a.m. I’ve arranged a lunch with them afterward. I’ll also remind you that your mother is insistent on you attending the date.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t let his frustration show. Instead, he stood up, pacing for a moment before heading toward the conference room. The meetings began immediately, as they always did, efficient, calculated, and devoid of small talk.

The first meeting with the marketing team was a review of the new ad campaign for a Pop star group debut. He barely looked at the presentation as it played out before him.

He didn’t need to see the vibrant colors or the flashy designs; he could already imagine it all in his mind. His attention was on the numbers, on the market trends, and on the money. Everything else was irrelevant.

“Make the ad more... impactful,” he said in a low voice. “Less fluff, more substance. We’re not selling a dream; we’re selling a product.”

The team nodded vigorously, taking notes. He moved on swiftly, his mind already onto the next task. Investors from Blue Sky Productions arrived next, and the discussions centered around expanding the company’s reach in global markets.

He was an expert at these kinds of negotiations, never revealing his true thoughts or feelings, always keeping his cards close to his chest. By the time lunchtime arrived, he was ready for a break from the incessant meetings.

He sat in the dining area of his office, the meal prepared by his personal chef. It was a light, almost minimalist meal, a plate of salad and grilled fish, but the taste was immaculate. His secretary, standing nearby, was ready to take notes again.

“Before we go to the investors, remind me again about tonight’s schedule,” Sung-hoon said, his voice cold but controlled.

The secretary hesitated before responding. “The blind date is at 7 p.m. at the Grand Lux Restaurant. Your mother insisted that it be there.”

“Fine. Let’s just get it over with,” he muttered, already losing interest in the evening ahead.

The afternoon passed in a blur of meetings and strategy sessions. He attended each one with the same cold precision, offering suggestions only when necessary and making decisions with ruthless efficiency.

His mind, though, was never far from the inevitable blind date that awaited him. It wasn’t that he didn’t value relationships, it was that he didn’t value the people in them. Relationships were a weakness, and he had no place for them in his life.

By the time the workday drew to a close, he was ready to leave. He stood up from his desk, his coat falling around him as he walked toward the elevator. The secretary followed, her steps measured and respectful. As the elevator descended, his gaze hardened.

***

The sun streamed through the windows of her vanity van, casting a golden hue on the sleek interiors. She sat patiently in the large chair in front of the vanity mirror, though her emerald green eyes were focused elsewhere. She was pouting slightly, her delicate lips forming a subtle curve of impatience.

Her fair skin, glowing naturally under the light, looked even more radiant against the deep red of her long, knee-length hair. The vibrant color was striking, and today, her hairdresser was weaving it into an intricate braid, each movement slow and deliberate.

“Almost done, Ms. Aaira,” the hairdresser said apologetically, noticing her restlessness.

Aaira sighed softly, her tone calm yet playful. “Take your time, it’s not like I have a scene waiting or anything,” she said, sarcasm evident but her voice was soft as always. Despite the words, there was no bitterness in her tone.

Aaira was known for being bubbly yet mature, a rare combination that made everyone around her feel at ease. She was carefree in her demeanor, but her work ethic was impeccable, a balance that had won her a loyal fanbase.

The stylist chuckled nervously, knowing that Aaira wasn’t one to lash out, but the pressure of perfection was always present. “It’s just this braid,” the stylist muttered, fingers deftly working through her vibrant locks. “You have such gorgeous hair, it’s hard to get it right sometimes.”

Aaira glanced at the mirror and smiled gently. “Thank you, but if it takes any longer, the director might have me braid it myself,” she teased, her emerald eyes sparkling with humor.

She was dressed in a black leather jacket paired with sleek black jeans and ankle boots. The outfit hugged her petite yet toned frame perfectly, giving her the edgy, action-star vibe the scene demanded. It was an action-packed day on set, and Aaira was excited about it.

She had always loved doing her own stunts, something she took great pride in. While most actresses hesitated to perform dangerous sequences, Aaira thrived in the thrill of it, even convincing directors to let her do as much as she could.

The door to the van opened, and a production assistant peeked in. “Ms. Aaira, they’re ready for you on set in ten.”

Aaira nodded with a smile. “Got it. Just wrapping up here.”

As soon as the stylist finished, Aaira stood up, inspecting her reflection one last time. Her long braid swung behind her, accentuating her commanding presence. Her emerald eyes held a gleam of determination, and the leather ensemble made her look like she had stepped straight out of an action blockbuster.

When she arrived on set, the energy was palpable. The crew was bustling around, cameras being adjusted, lights being positioned, and extras taking their marks. The director, Mr. Han, stood near the monitors, going over the choreography with the stunt coordinator.

“Aaira, there you are!” Mr. Brown called out, waving her over. He was a tall man with graying hair, known for his sharp eye and attention to detail. “We’re doing the bike chase scene today. I know you like to do your own stunts, but remember, safety first. No unnecessary risks.”

Aaira nodded, her expression serious as she approached him. “Of course, Director. Just let me know what you need from me.”

Mr. Brown handed her a copy of the storyboard, pointing to a sequence of frames. “Alright, so here’s the plan. You’ll be speeding down the alley, dodging obstacles. There’s going to be a low-hanging pipe about halfway through, duck under it at the last second. After that, you’ll swerve to avoid the car, and then do a sharp turn to block the bad guy.”

“Got it,” Aaira replied, her voice steady. She studied the storyboard closely, her emerald eyes scanning every detail. “What’s the timing for the pipe duck?”

“Three seconds after you start,” the stunt coordinator chimed in. “We’ll cue you with a signal. It’s all about precision here, Aaira. One mistake and...”

“I won’t make one,” she interrupted gently but firmly, her confidence shining through. “I’ll nail it.”

Mr. Brown smiled approvingly. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s do a rehearsal first, no cameras. Just get a feel for the sequence.”

Aaira mounted the sleek black bike that had been prepped for the scene. It was a lightweight model, built for agility, and she adjusted the helmet strap under her chin. The stunt coordinator ran through the choreography one more time, and Aaira listened attentively, her focus razor-sharp.

“Alright, positions, everyone!” Mr. Han shouted.

Aaira revved the engine, the powerful hum filling the set as the crew cleared the area. She gripped the handlebars tightly, her posture straight but relaxed. The rehearsal began, and she sped down the alley, her braid trailing behind her like a fiery ribbon.

The low-hanging pipe came into view, and she ducked fluidly, her movements seamless. She swerved around the car and executed the sharp turn with precision, skidding to a stop in front of her mark.

“Perfect!” Mr. Brown yelled, clapping his hands. “Let’s go for a take.”

The cameras were set, and the crew moved into their positions. The assistant director called for silence, and the clapperboard snapped shut in front of the camera. “Scene 42, take one. Action!”

Aaira launched into the sequence again, this time with the cameras rolling. Her expression transformed, embodying the fierce and determined character she was portraying. She leaned into the bike, the leather jacket creaking slightly as she maneuvered through the obstacles. The pipe came into view, and she ducked gracefully, her timing impeccable. The sharp turn at the end sent a spray of gravel into the air, adding a dynamic flair to the scene.

“Cut!” Mr. Brown called out. “That was great, Aaira, but let’s try it one more time. This time, add a little more urgency to the turn. Make it look like you’re barely escaping.”

Aaira nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Understood.”

They reset the scene, and the second take began. This time, Aaira leaned even further into the turn, her braid whipping around as she narrowly avoided the imaginary pursuer. The tension in her expression was palpable, her emerald eyes wide with feigned fear and determination. The crew watched in awe as she brought the scene to life, her dedication evident in every move.

“Cut! That’s it!” Mr. Brown exclaimed, beaming. “You nailed it, Aaira. Absolutely perfect.”

She smiled, dismounting the bike and removing her helmet. “Thanks, Director. I’m just glad I could bring your vision to life.”

The crew erupted into applause, and Aaira bowed slightly in appreciation. Despite her rising fame, she remained humble, always crediting the team for their hard work. She walked over to Mr. Brown, who patted her shoulder.

“You’re a natural, Aaira. I don’t know how you make it look so easy.”

She laughed softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Practice and patience, Director. And a lot of trust in your team.”

As the crew began wrapping up the set, quickly getting ready for another scene. Aaira returned to her vanity, the adrenaline from the shoot still coursing through her veins. She sat back in the chair, stretching her arms above her head with a satisfied sigh.

The faint hum of the air conditioning providing a backdrop to the controlled chaos surrounding her. The space was brightly lit, the mirrors framed with warm bulbs that illuminated her fair skin and highlighted her striking features. As she adjusted the collar of her jacket, there was a knock on the vanity door. The assistant director peeked in, his clipboard tucked under one arm. “Ms. Stark, we’re ready for you on set in five.” 

“Finally,” she muttered under her breath, but her tone was playful. She grabbed her helmet, a sleek matte-black piece with a tinted visor, and followed the assistant director out to the set. 

The shooting location was an open highway, cordoned off for the day. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the asphalt. The crew bustled around, setting up cameras and adjusting lighting. The same sleek black motorcycle stood parked in the center of the road. 

The director, Mr. Brown, stood near the monitor, gesturing animatedly as he explained the scene to the stunt coordinator. As soon as he spotted Aaira, his face lit up. 

“There’s my star!” he called out, motioning for her to join him. 

Aaira approached, her helmet tucked under her arm. “What’s the plan for now?” 

Mr. Brown handed her a small script, though most of the scene had already been rehearsed. “Alright, listen up. In this sequence, your character is being chased by the gang. You’re going to speed down the highway, dodge a few obstacles again. You’ll stop the bike, dismount, and we'll cut the scene. Got it?” 

Aaira nodded. “Got it. Anything specific I should keep in mind?” 

“The key here is fluidity,” Mr. Brown explained. “We want it to look fast and dangerous but still graceful. You’re not just driving; you’re a trained operative, so every move should be precise. No wasted motion. Think of it as choreography, not just a brawl.” 

“I understand,” she replied. 

The stunt coordinator stepped in to explain the details of the bike scene. “We’ve set up a ramp about fifty meters down the road. You’ll accelerate, hit the ramp, and jump the bike over the truck. Make sure you keep your weight balanced, and don’t brake too soon after the landing. You’ll lose momentum, and it won’t look as clean on the camera.” 

Aaira nodded again, absorbing every word. “Understood. Anything else?” 

The coordinator smiled. “Just don’t crash.” 

She laughed softly, slipping on her gloves. “I’ll do my best.” 

The crew cleared the set as Aaira mounted the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath her. The vibrations coursed through her body, but instead of fear, she felt a rush of excitement.

“Alright, everyone, positions!” Mr. Brown shouted through his megaphone. “Cameras rolling in three… two… one… Action!” 

Aaira twisted the throttle, and the bike surged forward, its tires screeching against the asphalt. The wind whipped against her face, though the helmet shielded her from the worst of it. She leaned into the turns, her movements fluid and controlled. The ramp loomed ahead, and she adjusted her posture, preparing for the jump. 

As the bike hit the ramp, she felt the brief moment of weightlessness before the tires touched down on the other side. The landing was smooth, and she continued down the road, weaving between strategically placed obstacles, a stack of crates, a burning barrel, without missing a beat. 

“Perfect!” Mr. Brown’s voice crackled through the earpiece she wore. “Keep going!” 

She did the scene as asked to do. Suddenly the voice echoed. “Cut!” Mr. Brown shouted, clapping his hands. “That was incredible, Aaira. Let’s do one more take, just for safety.” 

She nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. “No problem.” 

The second take went just as smoothly, if not better. By the time the director called “Cut” for the final time, the crew erupted into applause. 

“You nailed it,” Mr. Brown said, giving her a thumbs-up. 

Aaira smiled, her face flushed from the adrenaline. “Thank you. It was a lot of fun.” 

As the crew began packing up, Aaira returned to her vanity to change. Acting wasn’t just a job for her, it was her passion, and moments like these reminded her why she loved it so much. She glanced at herself in the mirror. A soft smile tugging at her lips. “I love you.” she murmured to herself, as she adjusted her lip tint.

Stark Aaira was a 20-year-old actress who had captivated the hearts of millions with her undeniable talent and striking presence. The daughter of a powerful business tycoon, she grew up surrounded by wealth and influence, yet she always harbored a passion for the arts, specifically acting.

Ever since she was a child, Aaira dreamed of standing in front of the camera, pouring her emotions into every role she played. Her journey into the entertainment world had been met with both admiration and envy. Loved by many for her charm, professionalism, and genuine kindness.

She was equally despised by others who envied her privileged background and meteoric rise to fame. Despite the polarized opinions, Aaira remained grounded, her bubbly yet mature personality making her a favorite among directors and co-stars.