Draven noticed the change before anyone said anything.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It came quietly—like the way Zenith's phone stopped buzzing around him, like the subtle shift in the way staff looked at him when they passed in the hallway. It was in the pauses that lingered a second too long, the conversations that stopped when he entered a room.
Pressure didn't announce itself.
It waited.
Zenith sat across from him in the living room, laptop open, jaw tight. He hadn't spoken in several minutes, fingers frozen above the keyboard like he was afraid of what would happen if he touched it again.
"Is it bad?" Draven finally asked.
Zenith looked up too fast. "No."
The lie was immediate. Too smooth.
Draven nodded anyway. He'd learned when to push and when to let silence do the work. But the air between them felt heavier than it had in weeks, thick with something unspoken.
Zenith closed the laptop and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. "They're… worried."
Draven's chest tightened. "The company?"
Zenith hesitated. That was answer enough.
"They think I'm distracted," Zenith continued carefully. "That I've… changed."
Draven swallowed. "Because of me."
"No." Zenith's voice was firm now. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Because I stopped letting them decide everything."
But Draven had already heard the rest in his head.
Because you chose me.
Because I exist.
That night, when Zenith fell asleep beside him, Draven stayed awake. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the slow rhythm of Zenith's breathing, and wondered how long it would take before loving him became too expensive.
It started online the next morning.
A post, anonymous but carefully worded. Screenshots cropped just enough to suggest intimacy without proof. A caption that didn't accuse—but implied.
Isn't it strange how Zenith's "friend" is always around?
Funny how some people get close without earning it.
Draven saw it while scrolling absentmindedly, coffee going cold in his hands. His stomach dropped.
The replies were worse.
They didn't mention Aiven. They didn't mention Raze.
They mentioned him.
Who even is he?
Looks like a leech.
Zenith deserves better than some nobody hanging around.
Draven locked his phone and pressed it to his chest like it might stop the words from sinking in.
By afternoon, Zenith fans had picked it up. Not all of them—but enough. Enough to feel like a wave building offshore.
Draven didn't tell Zenith.
He told Aiven.
They were sitting in the café after the lunch rush, the familiar comfort of clinking cups and the smell of roasted beans grounding him. Aiven listened quietly as Draven slid his phone across the counter.
Aiven read. His expression changed—soft at first, then sharp.
"They're wrong," Aiven said immediately.
"That doesn't matter," Draven replied.
Aiven looked up. "It does."
Draven shook his head slowly. "It matters who they believe."
Aiven leaned closer, voice low. "Zenith chose you. That hasn't changed."
"Yet," Draven said.
That was the word that scared him most.
Velric watched everything unfold from his office, fingers steepled, lips curved in a faint smile that never reached his eyes.
He hadn't ordered the post.
He didn't need to.
All he had to do was let the pressure work.
He made a call that evening—not to Zenith, but to someone higher up. Someone who cared more about numbers than people.
"There's concern," Velric said smoothly. "About Zenith's image. His… associations."
A pause.
"Yes. I agree. It's unfortunate."
Another pause.
"No, not publicly. Not yet."
He hung up, satisfied.
Pressure didn't need force.
It needed time.
That night, Zenith came home later than usual. He looked exhausted, shoulders tight, movements careful like he was holding himself together by habit alone.
Draven stood from the couch. "You okay?"
Zenith nodded. Then shook his head. "Not really."
Draven waited.
"They asked me if I was willing to… distance myself," Zenith said quietly.
Draven's heart stuttered. "From who?"
Zenith's eyes met his. There was no hesitation there. No doubt.
"You."
Silence fell hard between them.
"And?" Draven asked, though his voice barely held.
"And I said no."
Relief hit so fast it hurt—but it was followed immediately by fear.
"They won't stop," Draven said.
"I know," Zenith replied. He stepped closer, resting his forehead against Draven's. "That's why I'm telling you now. I don't want you blindsided."
Draven closed his eyes. "I don't want to be the reason you lose everything."
Zenith pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're not."
"Zenith—"
"You don't get to decide my limits for me," Zenith said gently but firmly. "If this gets worse, we face it together."
Draven nodded, but his chest felt tight. Because together sounded brave—but it also sounded dangerous.
Later, when Zenith was in the shower, Draven checked his phone again.
Another message.
Another thread.
More speculation. Sharper words.
Someone had commented:
If he really cared, he'd leave.
Draven stared at the screen for a long time.
Across the city, Raze read the same posts and felt his jaw clench.
He met Zenith later that night, away from cameras, away from managers. Just the two of them, sitting in a practice room lit too brightly.
"They're targeting him," Raze said flatly.
"I know."
"You okay with that?"
Zenith looked up. His expression was calm—but there was something burning underneath. "No."
"Then don't let them," Raze said. "You've fought worse."
Zenith exhaled slowly. "This isn't about fighting back. It's about how much damage he's willing to take for me."
Raze was quiet for a moment. Then, "And how much you're willing to take for him."
Zenith didn't answer—but the answer was already written in every choice he'd made.
That night, Draven lay awake again.
But this time, he wasn't just afraid.
He was angry.
Not at the fans.
Not even at Velric—not yet.
He was angry at the idea that loving someone could be used as a weapon.
Outside, the city buzzed on, unaware of the cracks forming beneath its brightest lights.
And somewhere above them all, the pressure continued to build—slow, patient, inevitable.