The next morning, the world was loud again.
Alarms. Messages.
Notifications piling up like raindrops on glass.
Lian blinked awake to the sound of his manager's voice yelling through the dorm hallway.
"Where were you last night, Lian? You missed your morning vocal warm-up!"
He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes. "I—I overslept."
"Again?" The manager's tone sharpened. "You're debuting solo now. No distractions. No side projects. The board is watching you."
Side projects.
If only they knew what that really meant.
---
By noon, he was back in the studio — the company studio this time. Sterile. Perfect. Every sound carefully measured.
He stood behind the mic, trying to sing the new track they'd assigned him, but his voice kept cracking.
It wasn't the notes — it was the emptiness.
Every lyric sounded fake. Every melody felt forced.
"Lian," the producer said through the mic, voice clipped, "you sound off. Too emotional. This is supposed to be clean. Controlled."
