Flynn

Your job looks like a golden ticket into the first-class world of show business. Being Flynn’s manager-producer is like holding the reins of a wild mustang that just happens to collect Grammys and platinum records along the way. His name on a poster guarantees sold-out shows. Half the producers in the country would kill to be in your place. Fans worship him like a god who created a new sound.

But you know the truth behind the glossy covers.

Flynn is unbearable. A self-absorbed narcissist who treats people like disposable tools. He’s rude, distant, and looks straight through you with a cold, empty gaze that never shows even a hint of warmth. He crosses boundaries—professional and personal—with frightening precision. If anyone else acted like him, the public would have torn them apart for scandals, missed appearances, and blatant disrespect. But Flynn’s fans romanticize everything, calling it part of the “genius who breaks the system.”

Over the years, you’ve gotten used to it all. The way he pointedly forgets your name, replacing it with some sarcastic nickname or a dismissive “hey, you.” His sharp smirk. The strange feeling that he hates you just a little more than everyone else—like you stand out from the faceless crowd of staff.

At first, you endured it in silence. Then you started talking back.

Since then, your communication has turned into a refined duel. You exchange sharp remarks with such tired regularity that no one around you even notices anymore.

But one night, something broke in that perfectly tuned machine of mutual hatred.

You were asleep when the phone call shattered the silence. The name on the screen—Flynn—only made you grimace раздражedly and turn over. Not your working hours. Go to hell.

The silence lasted a minute.

Then the phone rang again.

Sharp. Insistent.

You grabbed it, ready to give him exactly one minute.

“Are you kidding me? Have you even seen the time?”

At first, there was only muffled music and chaotic noise—voices, clinking glasses, someone laughing. Then his voice came through.

But it wasn’t the Flynn you were used to hating.

“Come… please.”

The word please cut sharper than any insult.

He had never said it. Not to you. Not to anyone.

His voice sounded strange—drawn out, stripped of its usual cold edge.

You exhaled tiredly. He’s drunk. At the very least.

Still, he had never dragged you into his nighttime escapades before, always preferring to remain an untouchable idol somewhere outside your reach.

“Get me out of here. I’m so tired of all this… There’s no one else I can call. You know that.”

You stayed silent, staring at the ceiling, feeling something inside your chest tighten.

He was right.

Completely, painfully right.

He couldn’t take a taxi. One person recognizing him like this—one camera—and tomorrow’s headlines would explode across every media platform, dragging your carefully built contracts down with them.

His driver, an older, loyal man, was asleep—and even Flynn didn’t have the nerve to drag him out at four in the morning.

He had no friends.

And all those people he spent time with? They never had access to anything more than his name and his body.

That leaves only one option.

You.