I won't make the same mistake.
My favorite coffee place is already buzzing when I arrive, the small café packed with people seeking caffeine before facing the day ahead. The interior is warm and inviting, all exposed brick and reclaimed wood, with mismatched furniture that somehow works together to create a cozy atmosphere. The smell of freshlyroasted beans fills the air, mingling with the sweeter scents of vanilla and chocolate from the pastry case. I join the line, grateful for the familiar routine of ordering my usual—a large Americano with an extra shot, because today of all days I need the caffeine.
The barista who takes my order doesn't notice anything unusual about me. To her, I'm just another customer, another anonymous face in the crowd. The anonymity is comforting in a way it's never been before.
I accept my coffee and step back out into the morning, wrapping my hands around the warm cup and letting the heat seep into my fingers. The entertainment buildings loom overhead, glass and steel monoliths catching the early light and throwing it back in dazzling patterns. Each one houses a hundred dreams, a thousand ambitions, an army of artists and managers and executives all working toward the same goal: success.
For some, that means stardom—the bright lights and screaming fans and magazine covers that most people imagine when they think of the entertainment industry. For others, like me, it means something quieter. A credit in the liner notes. A royalty check in the mail. The satisfaction of hearing your words sung by millions even if they don't know your name.
I've always been content with that. Content in the shadows, far from the consuming spotlight that destroys as many people as it elevates. Being tied to someone—or five someones—would drag me out of those shadows whether I wanted to go or not.
If my soulmates are in the public eye...
I don't let myself finish the thought. It's too terrifying to contemplate.
My studio is located in a separate building within Narvi Entertainment's massive campus, tucked away in a quieter corner far from the main hub of activity. It was a consciouschoice when I was given the opportunity to select my workspace. I needed privacy, needed space away from the constant energy of the central buildings, a place where I could create without the weight of the industry pressing in on me.
The building itself is older, more weathered than the gleaming towers that house the company's more prestigious divisions. Brick and worn wood, a small lobby with a security desk that's rarely manned, an elevator that makes concerning noises on the best of days. But it has character, and more importantly, it has solitude. My studio is my sanctuary—the one place where I feel completely in control.
My keycard buzzes me in, the familiar beep a small comfort. I take the stairs two at a time, three flights up to the floor where my studio awaits. The hallway is quiet, the other studios either empty or occupied by creators who, like me, prefer to work in isolation. My door is at the end, marked with a small brass plaque that reads simply "K. Studio."
I let myself in, and the familiar scent of my workspace washes over me. Coffee—multiple cups' worth, some still sitting on my desk from yesterday's session. Paper—the slightly musty smell of notebooks accumulated over years. Electronics—the particular scent of equipment that's been running for hours. And beneath it all, something that's simply mine, the olfactory signature of a space I've inhabited long enough to leave my mark.
Mark.
The word sends a spike of anxiety through me, and I push it aside, forcing myself to focus on the room instead of the design hidden beneath my collar.
The studio is larger than most would expect, a rectangular room with high ceilings and exposed brick walls painted white. My desk dominates one corner, a massive wooden surface scarred by years of use, covered with the detritus of creativity.My computer setup takes up another section—dual monitors, keyboard, mixing board. Bookshelves line one wall, stuffed with references and inspiration.
In the corner by the window, my worn leather couch, positioned to catch the afternoon light and the view of the small park below. That's where I do my best thinking, curled up with my notebook and a cup of coffee, watching the world go by.
I drop my bag onto my desk and power up my computer, settling into the familiar routine. Work. This is what I know. This is what I can control. Music has always been my escape from everything I couldn't face—my mother's illness, my father's absence, the loneliness that's been my constant companion since I was twelve years old.
Today, it will be my escape from the five gray flowers that feel like chains waiting to tighten.
The familiar hum of the studio settles my nerves slightly. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across the equipment. I can do this. I can sit here, write my songs, live my life, and pretend that nothing has changed.
The mark on my neck pulses gently, a reminder that everything has changed.
I ignore it and open my email.
A soft chime from my computer signals a new message, and I lean forward to read it, grateful for the distraction. It's from Mina, my manager—a woman whose sharp efficiency has guided my career for the past three years.
Mina: Need you at HQ. Potential high-profile project. NDA level.
My brows lift. High-profile? In my world, that usually means one of two things: a comeback for an A-list artist or a debut project for a rising group the company is betting everything on. Either way, it means pressure—the kind that leads to late nights and early mornings, to scrapped drafts and last-minute rewrites.
The NDA mention is intriguing. Non-disclosure agreements are common in the industry, but mentioning it specifically suggests something bigger than usual. Something the company is particularly invested in keeping secret. A project like this would be good for my career. Good for my bank account. Good for the carefully constructed professional identity I've built over the years.
Good for distracting me from the five flowers now adorning my skin.
I grab my bag, slipping my notebook back inside, and head out. The transition from my studio to the main entertainment building is familiar—down three flights of stairs, out into the bustling street, a ten-minute walk through the heart of the district. I weave through the late-morning crowd, trainees in matching workout clothes, stylists lugging racks of costumes, managers barking into phones. The industry in all its chaotic glory.
I keep my head down, my scarf high, and try not to make eye contact with anyone. The less I see, the less chance that one of those five gray flowers will suddenly bloom into color.
Narvi Entertainment's headquarters is a towering structure of glass and steel, designed to project power and success. The lobby is vast and imposing, all marble floors and soaring ceilings, with a massive digital display showcasing the company's current roster of artists. Their faces smile down at me as I cross toward the security desk—idols I've written for, groups whose songs I've helped shape, solo artists whose emotions I've translated into lyrics.
I check in at security, receive a visitor badge, and make my way to the elevators. The conference room on the third floor is already occupied when I arrive, Mina waiting with her tablet, alongside Jihoon, one of the company's senior producers.
