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That’s the business.
The anchor’s smile widens as another headline flashes beneath him.
“Critics continue questioning whether Misfitz Records represents genuine artistic freedom or simply Khaos’s latest attempt at rebuilding a carefully calculated public image.”
I bark out another laugh.
Calculated.
If they knew the real me, they’d beg for the fake one.
I sink back into my chair with a heavy sigh and take in my recording studio. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking Seoul. White and lavender lights reflecting off every surface. Soft furniture that costs more than some of the recording equipment here. Gold and platinum plaques covering the walls for every record I’ve managed to drag across the finish line.
From the outside, it looks like success.
A dream.
Proof that I won.
But nobody sees how much I had to bleed to cost me to get here.
Nobody sees the sacrifices or the pieces of myself I had to bury along the way.
All they see are the headlines and controversies. The man they created in their heads.
Not me.
Zymon reaches over and turns off the television without taking his eyes off me.
I know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t have to say shit.
The music.
I take the baseball cap off and drag a hand through my black-and-white hair and let out a frustrated breath.
“I don’t know what the fuck to do, man,” I admit. “It’s missing something.”
I’m missing something.
The thought comes before I can stop it.
“It’s missing a lot.”
I turn my head slowly. “How the fuck is that supposed to help?”
He shrugs. “You want me to lie to you?"
I let out a sharp breath, push away from the console, and stand.
My feet carry me toward the windows before my brain catches up.
Outside, the snow falls harder over Seoul.
There’s something strange about it.
How something can look so beautiful and still be so fucking cold.
I hate winter.
