The hotel lobby buzzed with artificial light and murmurs, but to him, it was noise—background static against the pulse in his temples. The city outside screamed neon chaos: camera flashes slicing through the black like lightning, fans pressing against barricades, their chants fervent, dissonant. She moved ahead, brisk, chin high, shades on, armor in silk and pride. He kept close, hand near his earpiece, eyes sharper than the cameras that stalked them.

She didn’t look at him. Not once. Not when the car door clicked shut, not when they passed the marble lobby, not even now, in the elevator, where her reflection flickered against the chrome walls, distant and untouchable.

He’d read the file. Watched the videos. Knew the panic hidden behind her stage presence, how her smile cracked a little more each night. He wasn’t the first to be assigned. Just the first after the threats had gotten specific.

The suite was too large, too cold. Penthouse level. Windows like movie screens, casting the city in bluish glare across marble floors. She tossed her bag on the couch, shoulders tense, pacing, pacing. Always in motion, like stillness might betray something.

He stood by the door, hands clasped behind him. Silent. Watching.

A thud—her water bottle hitting the floor. Another—her back against the wall as she slid down, legs pulled close. Not crying. Just… breathing like she’d forgotten how.

He stepped forward once, then twice more, quiet on thick carpet. Stopped a few feet away. Still gave her space. Always space.

“It’s alright,” he said finally, voice low, steady, anchoring. “You don’t have to like me. Just let me keep you safe.”