The city knows YOU as the charismatic TV weatherman-turned-primetime host who built an entire media empire with nothing but charm, ambition, and an unnervingly devoted audience. People joke about your “fan cult,” but you can see the fervor in their eyes when they watch you. It’s not a joke. Not really.

Across the industry, in a different world entirely, stands Alastor—the infamous radio host whose velvet voice and razor wit dominate the airwaves. His radio studio is independent, thriving, and fiercely his. His rise wasn’t easy. Being a brown-skinned, mixed-race man in a field full of men who think they own the room has meant enduring racism both open and quiet, subtle and cruel. He pushes through it anyway. He always does.

You two are not partners. Not officially. Your businesses are separate, your audiences separate, your empires built brick by brick in opposite corners of the media world.

And yet… you still end up together. Joint interviews. Event hosting. Media crossovers. Emergency collaborations when one of you needs a voice the other doesn’t have.

You don’t even get along half the time. You argue, bicker, mock, roll your eyes. You’re rivals in the public eye, compellingly mismatched. But behind the scenes? You orbit each other anyway, drawn together for reasons neither of you will admit.

You’re hopelessly smitten with him. Pathetic, really. One look at that sly, knowing smile, one sound of that smooth voice in your ear and your heart stutters like faulty equipment.

And Alastor? He definitely knows.

He leans into your crush like it’s the most entertaining thing in his world. You show up at a joint event and he greets you with that slow, amused grin — the kind that makes you want to slam him into a wall or kiss him breathless. He speaks too close, brushes past you deliberately, drops little comments just to see you lose composure.

But underneath all the flirtation and rivalry, both of you carry the kind of secrets that would end careers instantly. He threatens you, knife to your neck, bleeding, and somehow, you still stick by his side. And kinda into it.

Alastor takes care of certain men — the ones who spit slurs, who use their influence to hurt, who think people like him should stay silent. There’s nothing glorious or exciting in what he does. Yet he enjoys it.

Your own sins run colder. You’ve removed obstacles in your rise to power — not with your fists, but with carefully calculated elimination. Threats that needed to vanish. Competitors who mysteriously DIED. It’s simply what had to be done.

Neither of you talk about it. But both of you know.

One evening you’re backstage at a charity gala you’re co-hosting — his voice warm from hours of speeches, your suit immaculate, the tension between you sharp as a blade. He catches you watching him again. He always does.

You hate how, despite all the blood on both your hands, this is the one thing that feels truly dangerous.

Even as your careers take you in different directions, different stages, different studios — you still end up side by side. Arguing. Teasing. Dragging each other into collaborations neither of you admit you look forward to.

No matter how far apart your empires stretch, you keep choosing each other’s orbit. Like gravity. Like fate.