By the time the photo ruins my life, I’m sweating through a dollar-store rain jacket and arguing with a traffic light.
“Come on,” I mutter at the red hand blinking at me like it knows I’m late. My thighs burn from the last hill. The winter air slices through the rips in my leggings. A car horn screams somewhere behind me, joined by another, like an angry chorus.
Welcome to downtown on release day. Every billboard screams the same face: Aiden Kuro, Eclipse Entertainment’s golden boy. Golden jawline. Golden smile. Eyes printed three stories tall, looking down on all of us like he’s some benevolent god of choreo.
I pointedly don’t look at him.
I duck my head, tighten my grip on the handlebars, and check the delivery address glowing on my phone: Eclipse Tower, VIP entrance.
“A joke,” I tell myself. “The universe is playing a joke. Ha. Ha.”
The light finally flips green. I push off hard, wheels spitting water as I weave through a knot of pedestrians. My backpack thumps between my shoulder blades, straps digging into my collarbones. Another order, another eight-dollar payout, another hour of pretending that staying invisible is a choice and not a habit I never outgrew.
At least couriers are ghosts. People see the bike, not the girl. Perfect.
Except Eclipse Tower is the opposite of invisible.
It rises ahead of me like a glass knife, cutting the low clouds in half. The marquee over the main doors glows with Eclipse’s logo, and the plaza in front is already swarming with fans in plastic ponchos, their lightsticks dull in daylight but still unmistakable.
I brake at the edge of the crowd. The security line for staff and deliveries is off to the side, roped off, watched by bored guards in black coats.
“Collins, Mira,” I tell the scanner at the gate, tapping my ID card, my voice sounding scratchy to my own ears.
The tablet blinks, pings, and the guard barely glances at me. Perfect. I follow the narrow path along the barricades, where fans are pressed like cells in a petri dish, cameras raised, posters clutched, every face turned toward the VIP drop-off lane.
Their breath comes out in white puffs. Their voices rise and fall, chanting his name.
“Aiden! Aiden! Aiden!”
He’s not even here and they’re already screaming.
I keep my eyes on the wet pavement. Don’t look at the posters, Mira. Don’t recognize the lyrics you definitely didn’t write rip-off versions of in your notebook. Don’t imagine what it feels like to be wanted by that many people at once.
My phone vibrates with a new notification banner that slides down over the map.
ACCOUNT OVERDUE: FINAL NOTICE.
I stab the screen to make it disappear. The image lingers anyway—past-due power bill, rent check that’s going to bounce, my brother’s name on the insurance statement I can’t keep up with. Invisible doesn’t mean untouchable. Consequences always find a way.
“Package?” the guard at the service door grunts.
I swing off the bike, legs trembling, and unclip the insulated bag. “One vegan bento, one black coffee, extra espresso shot. For, uh…” I squint at the name. “Reyes. Noah.”
The guard lifts a brow, finally looking at me. “You’re late.”
Story of my life. “Traffic.”
He waves a scanner over the bag, nods, then motions toward the glass doors. “Take it in. Elevator C. Fifteenth floor. Management wing.”
My heart stutters. “I don’t usually—”
“Restaurant’s slammed. You got clearance.” He taps the lanyard hanging around my neck. The sticker with Eclipse’s logo had been slapped on at dispatch without explanation.
I think about arguing. Instead, I think about my bank app and the little red minus sign front of my account balance.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing. “Elevator C.”
Inside, the lobby is warm enough that my damp clothes feel suddenly gross. Marble floors. Massive LED wall flashing upcoming tour dates and streaming numbers. A girl in a silver pantsuit glides past, stilettos silent on the stone, earpiece glowing blue. She doesn’t see me.
The thing about being invisible: sometimes it’s useful. Sometimes it’s just lonely.
Elevator C is at the far end, guarded by another security gate. My sticker gets me through with a soft beep. Maybe someone up there really needs their vegan bento.
The elevator arrives, doors sliding open with a hiss.
And he’s standing there.
Not his face on a billboard. Not in a music video on a cracked phone screen. Not airbrushed or choreographed.
Aiden Kuro. In person.
He’s alone, which feels wrong, like seeing a lion without a cage. Black mask under his jaw, water beading on the shoulders of his long charcoal coat. His hair’s damp, darker than in his posters, fringe falling just enough to shadow his eyes.
Those eyes flick over me, dismissive and bored. Just an elevator. Just a girl in a neon rain jacket holding a food bag.
I step in. The doors slide shut. The floor hums beneath my boots as we start to rise.
It’s quiet except for the soft mechanical whir and the drip of rainwater from his coat onto the marble.
“You’re blocking the sensor,” he says, voice low, crisped with fatigue.
I jolt and shift closer to the wall, realizing I’m half-standing in front of the control panel. “Sorry.”
His hand extends, elegant fingers passing inches from my shoulder to press a button.
15 glows. 42 glows. He doesn’t look at me again.
I do not look at him.
I definitely don’t notice the faint shadow under his eyes, the way his shoulders curve almost imperceptibly inward, like the coat is heavier than it looks. I don’t notice how his hand trembles very slightly when he lets it fall back to his side.
My heart is a trapped bird. I focus on the food bag. Do not say anything. Do not fangirl. Do not exist.
The elevator shudders. Somewhere above us, metal groans.
We keep rising.
“You work for the restaurant on Third?” he asks suddenly.
It takes me a second to register he’s talking to me. “Uh. No. I mean, I’m a courier. We pick up from whoever pays.”
“Ah.” He nods once. Conversation over.
I should be grateful. Lots of people would kill for elevator small talk with a star. Instead, all I can think is: if I keep quiet, maybe this moment disappears when the doors open. Just another delivery. Another day.
The elevator dings at fifteen. The doors begin to slide open—and then slam shut again.
“What the—” I start.
The lights flicker. The elevator jolts so hard my knees buckle.
Aiden’s arm shoots out, fingers catching my elbow, steadying me before I can crash into the mirrored wall.
For a split second, my whole body registers the contact: his grip firm but not bruising, skin warm through my jacket. A static crackles up my arm.
Then the lights cut out.
The elevator rocks. Somewhere in the shaft, something clanks like a snapped chain.
We lurch to a stop.
Silence.
Emergency lights blaze on, harsh and blue. The panel flashes ERR in angry red letters.
“Perfect,” I say, because there are times when sarcasm is the last defense between you and a panic attack.
I realize his hand is still on my elbow. I can feel each of his fingers, the faint press as if he’s gauging how steady I am.
“You okay?” he asks.
I look up, and the full force of his gaze hits me. Without the mask, his face is…human. Not perfect, not airbrushed. There’s a small scar at his temple I’ve never seen in a photo. His lips are paler than in the posters, pressed together.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “You?”
His mouth curves, not quite amused. “I’ve had worse elevators.”
He lets go, and an absence blooms where his hand was. The air feels colder.
He pulls out his phone. The screen glows, but when he taps a contact and lifts it to his ear, there’s only silence. No ringback.
He drops the phone from his ear, frowning slightly. “Signal’s dead.”
“Can they…do that?” I gesture vaguely at the ceiling. “Turn off the—whatever?”
“Not usually,” he says. “Not with this elevator.”
This elevator. The one that probably has its own security detail and legal team.
Panic claws at my throat, small and familiar. Confined spaces, metal walls, no control—memories I never asked for crowding at the edges of my vision.
Breathe, Mira. Four in, four out.
“It’s probably just a glitch,” I say, more to myself than to him. “They’ll get it moving in a minute.”
The emergency speaker in the ceiling crackles to life. “Elevator C, are you secure?” a disembodied female voice asks.
Aiden steps closer to the panel. “We’re stable. How long?”
“Minor outage. We’re rebooting the system,” the voice says, all business. “Two minutes, maybe three. Are you alone?”
Aiden’s eyes flick to me, then back up. “No. One courier.”
There’s a micro-pause. I can almost hear the woman on the other end recalibrating.
“Copy that, Mr. Kuro,” she says, voice tightening in a way I can’t name. “Stay calm. We’re monitoring.”
The speaker clicks off.
My skin prickles. Two or three minutes. I can handle that. I shift my weight, adjust the strap digging into my shoulder, and try not to think about how quiet it is.
He leans back against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. It’s a practiced pose, casual but contained.
“You’re very calm,” he says.
I snort. “You can’t see inside my head.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Fair enough.”
We lapse into silence. The emergency light buzzes faintly. I can hear his breathing—steady, controlled. Mine sounds louder.
“Do you—” he starts.
The elevator drops an inch with a stomach-lurching thunk.
I yelp, half-step forward on instinct, and crash directly into his chest.
His hands clamp around my upper arms, solid as the walls I imagine crushing us. My face ends up embarrassingly close to his neck, close enough to smell his cologne: something clean and sharp, like rain on metal.
My pulse spikes so hard I feel dizzy.
“It’s the brake,” he says quietly. His voice is in my ear now. “Kicks when they test the reset. It’s annoying, not dangerous.”
“I am not…” I manage, words muffled against the soft wool of his coat, “…convinced.”
He laughs under his breath. It’s a short sound, rough with tiredness, but it does something strange to the air between us. The panic loosens its grip by a fraction.
The elevator stabilizes. We don’t move.
I realize I’m still plastered to him and jerk back like I’ve been burned. Heat floods my face. “Sorry. Reflex.”
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then he nods. “Happens.”
Does it? Do random girls keep flinging themselves at him in broken elevators? Probably.
My heart punches my ribs. I step away until my spine hits cold metal.
The emergency speaker crackles again. “Elevator C?”
“Yes,” Aiden says.
“There’s…an external incident,” the woman says, and suddenly her carefully neutral tone is strained. “We need you to remain where you are until we confirm safety in the lobby.”
Aiden goes very still. “What kind of incident?”
“Just—stay put, Mr. Kuro. We’ll update you shortly.”
The line clicks off. No explanation.
My fingers tighten around the food bag until the plastic creaks. “Is this normal?”
His jaw flexes once. “Define normal.”
“Like…fans? Protest? Meteor strike?”
He exhales, a controlled release. “If it were a meteor, they wouldn’t bother rebooting the elevator.”
“So, fans,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, but the way his shoulders notch up is enough.
On the other side of the mirrored wall, beyond elevators and marble and glass, there are hundreds of people who think they own him. Who think they know him. Who would probably trample each other to get this close.
And here I am, too close without trying.
His phone vibrates. Somehow he has reception now. He glances at the screen.
For the first time, something like real emotion cuts through his composure—irritation, maybe, or dread.
He answers on speaker. “Noah.”
“Aiden, listen,” a male voice snaps, tense and rapid. “Elevator C is frozen, right?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there. Do not step out if those doors open unless security physically pulls you.”
“Why?” Aiden’s tone doesn’t change, but there’s a new edge threaded through it.
“Because some genius upstairs leaked your arrival time,” Noah says. “The lobby’s a zoo. We’ve got at least three unofficial cameras live, fans are crowding the service doors, and someone posted a rumor that you’re announcing a relationship today. They’re feral.”
My stomach dips.
Relationship. The word buzzes in the air between us like a fly.
Aiden’s eyes flick to me. To the courier badge. To the food bag with someone else’s name. Back to the panel.
“Fantastic,” he says flatly.
“You’re with anyone?” Noah asks.
“One courier,” Aiden says.
Another too-long pause. “Girl or guy?”
My cheeks heat. I don’t know why I feel vaguely insulted and weirdly self-conscious at the same time.
“Girl,” Aiden says.
Noah swears, the sound sharp in the confined space. “Okay. Okay. Stay on the line. They’re trying to clear a path, but if the doors open early, cameras will be pointed right at you, got it? You step out with some random girl and it’ll be a bloodbath on the feeds.”
Random girl.
I clutch the bag, watching his profile, expecting him to correct Noah. To say, She’s nothing. She doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he looks directly at me and says, “Understood.”
The emergency light hums. The air feels too thick.
“A relationship rumor?” I ask, my voice coming out thinner than I’d like.
“Welcome to Eclipse,” he says quietly. “They monetize everything. Even stories that don’t exist.”
Something tightens in my chest. “That sounds…exhausting.”
He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You get used to it.”
“Do you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His gaze sharpens, pinning me like I’ve said something dangerous.
The elevator jolts again. The panel flickers. The ERR changes to 01.
“Reboot complete,” the disembodied voice crackles. “Elevator C, you’re back online. Proceeding to next scheduled stop: Lobby.”
“Wait,” Noah barks through the phone. “Hold him—”
But the elevator is already moving. Down this time.
My pulse stammers. “Lobby? Didn’t she just say—”
The numbers descend: 14, 13, 12.
Noah curses. “Okay, new plan. Aiden, listen to me. If those doors open into that mess with a girl at your side, it’s over. Sponsors, stocks, Lena’s going to—just—”
“Tell them to stop the elevator,” Aiden says, calm somehow.
“I’m trying. The system’s in override. Someone upstairs pulled manual.”
Of course they did. Somewhere above us, behind tinted glass, a room full of executives watches little blinking dots on a screen and decides what will sell.
10.
9.
My throat goes dry. “They’re sending you into a feeding frenzy on purpose?”
“Drama drives engagement,” he says, only a hint of bitterness leaking through.
“Cool,” I say faintly. “I always wanted to die trending.”
He looks at me, something like apology flickering there. Then his eyes go flat, professional. Mask on, even without the fabric.
5.
4.
“Mira, was it?” he asks.
The fact that he remembers my name from the scanner makes my heart trip in the middle of all this.
“Yeah.”
His gaze holds mine, steady. “When those doors open, stay behind me. Do not look at the cameras. Do not answer anything. You were never here. Understood?”
I should say no. I should tell him I’m not his prop, not his extra in a fan-service scene.
But the numbers keep dropping, relentless.
“Understood,” I whisper.
The elevator slows. The hum lowers. I can hear the roar on the other side of the doors now—a low, rolling thunder of voices, the shriek of metal barricades, the high whine of microphones feeding a thousand live streams.
The panel pings: LOBBY.
The doors slide open.
Noise crashes in, blinding as light. Flashbulbs explode, turning everything into stuttered snapshots. Fans surge against the cordons, arms outstretched, mouths open in soundless yells.
Aiden steps forward, shoulders squaring, and in an instant he becomes the man from the billboards. The tired lines vanish. His mouth tilts into a perfect, camera-ready smile.
A hand shoots out—someone in a suit, security, maybe—and clamps around his arm, but it’s too late.
Dozens of phone cameras have already captured the scene: Aiden Kuro in the threshold of the elevator, and right behind him, frozen by the sheer wall of attention, a rain-slick, wide-eyed nobody clutching a food bag.
Me.
There is a half-second of stunned silence.
Then somewhere in the front, a lightstick-wielding girl screams, “Who is she?”
I blink into the hurricane of light and sound, my heart slamming so hard it hurts, and in that split, searing moment I understand: whatever happens next, my days of being invisible are over.
