Part 8
The world had decided there was room for two stars.
Adrian Lee, the legend.
Ethan Vale, the firebrand.
Everywhere they went, the air crackled with comparison.
Two names that never appeared apart.
Two faces that sold every magazine cover.
At first, Ethan tried to fight fair.
He trained harder, sang longer, rehearsed until dawn.
But every time his song climbed the charts, Adrian's was already waiting at number one—polished, effortless, unreachable.
People called Adrian "the voice of perfection."
Ethan called him the wall.
So Ethan began to play smarter, not cleaner.
He smiled during interviews and planted quiet traps with his words.
"Adrian? He's incredible. Almost too incredible—sometimes you wonder if anyone can really be that flawless."
He'd laugh, and the reporters would laugh with him.
But the headline the next day would read:
"Ethan Vale questions Adrian Lee's authenticity."
He started staging small rumors—harmless, believable ones.
A fake leak about Adrian lip-syncing.
A whispered story about him being "difficult backstage."
None of it provable, all of it sticky enough to linger.
The internet devoured it.
Hashtags rose, vanished, rose again.
Every time Adrian appeared tired, the comments multiplied:
He's losing it.
Maybe Ethan's right.
Adrian said nothing.
He kept performing, his shows flawless, his voice steady—but his smile began to feel heavier, like a mask that had grown teeth.
After one concert, a reporter cornered him backstage.
"People say Ethan's the future. Any thoughts?"
Adrian smiled faintly. "Then I guess I'm the present."
The clip went viral. Fans called it a comeback line.
But when he returned to his dressing room, his reflection looked pale, uncertain.
On the counter lay a sunflower—bright, perfect, freshly cut.
No note, just its scent filling the quiet.
Adrian froze.
He hadn't seen one since Berlin.
Outside, in the corridor, someone laughed softly— distant.
He stepped to the door, opened it.
No one there.
Just the echo of footsteps fading down the hall.
He picked up the sunflower and whispered,
"Don't start this again…"
But deep down, he knew both of them—Ethan and The Unidentified Flower Sender—were playing games now.
And the worst part was, he wasn't sure which of them scared him more.