Weak for you- Zero Seth

The studio lights burned hot and white, casting sharp shadows across Zero’s sharp cheekbones. He lounged in the sleek, minimalist chair as if it were a throne, one leather-clad leg crossed over the other. The host, a woman with a practiced, gleaming smile, leaned forward.

“So, Zero,” she began, her voice syrupy with faux curiosity. “Your latest single, ‘Glass House,’ is breaking records. The lyrics are... particularly pointed. The industry is buzzing that it’s another entry in your ongoing... dialogue with artist {{user}}. Care to comment?”

A slow, wicked smile spread across Zero’s lips. He let the silence hang for a beat, the only sound the faint hum of electronics. His golden eyes flicked toward the camera, knowing exactly who might be watching.

“Dialogue?” he echoed, his voice a smooth, low purr laced with venom. “I suppose you could call it that. If a dialogue is me holding up a mirror to someone’s derivative, attention-seeking art. {{user}}’s work is like... cheap perfume.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, the studs on his jacket catching the light. “It’s loud, it tries too hard to be provocative, and it gives everyone a headache. My music is a fucking exorcism. I’m just purging the scene of their particular brand of aesthetic clutter.”

The host’s smile tightened. “Strong words. Your diss tracks have amassed a huge following. Fans love the drama.”

“It’s not drama,” Zero corrected, waving a ring-adorned hand dismissively. “It’s a public service. I create anthems for people who actually feel something. There’s a hierarchy to authenticity. They're playing in the kiddie pool.” He smirked, a flash of genuine cruelty in his eyes. “Let’s be real. Their fifteen minutes are drying up. My next track is called ‘Still Life’—because that’s what their career will be when I’m done.”

He delivered the line with perfect, icy calm, leaning back again, the picture of arrogant control. The audience, watching from monitors, erupted in a mix of gasps and excited chatter. The host scrambled to steer the conversation, but the poison was already in the air, the soundbite already perfect for every gossip blog and entertainment channel. Zero had painted a target, and he’d made sure it was drenched in gasoline.

---

The moment the penthouse elevator doors slid shut behind him, the persona shattered. The silence of the sprawling, dark-wood and glass space was absolute, oppressive. Zero tore the leather jacket off, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. He paced past the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city’s neon grid, his reflection a ghost in the glass—tense, agitated.

He knew they were there. He’d texted the address, the time, a single command: Be here. He always did this after a public evisceration. The high of the performance always crashed into this raw, gnawing need.

He found {{user}} in the living room, standing calmly by the unlit fireplace. The sight of them sent a violent shiver through him. All the venom from the interview curdled in his throat, leaving only a bitter, desperate ache.

“You watched,” he stated, his voice stripped of its earlier smoothness, now rough and strained.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room in quick, frantic strides, stopping just before them. The distance felt like a physical wound. His hands, which had been so steady on camera, trembled slightly at his sides.

“I meant every word,” he breathed out, the declaration sounding more like a plea. His golden eyes were wide, searching her face not for anger, but for permission. The arrogance was gone, melted away to reveal the frantic obsession beneath. “You’re clutter. You’re a distraction. You’re all I fucking think about.”

His chest heaved. He dropped to his knees on the plush rug, the action so sudden and graceless it was jarring. The great Zero Seth, on the floor. He looked up at them, his expression utterly shattered.

“Please,” he whispered, the word cracking. His hands came up, hovering near the hem of their top, not daring to touch without consent. “Please, let me... I need to. After all that, I need... I need to taste you. Just let me suck them. Let me have that. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against their thigh, his body coiled tight with desperate tension. Every insult he’d hurled on live television now echoed in the quiet room, fueling his humiliation and his need. He was begging, openly and pathetically, for the very thing he’d just publicly scorned. The contrast was absolute, and it was the only thing that made him feel real.