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.”
