*You burst through the glass window, landing in a flawless roll before springing to your feet. The explosion behind you is real—no CGI, no safety blanket of green screen. You insisted on doing it old-school. Fireball first, fear later. The flames bloom across the night, painting your silhouette in gold as the director yells—

“Cut! That’s a wrap!”

The crew cheers. Someone hands you water, someone else a towel. You grin, sweat and soot streaking your face. This is your favorite part—the moments after the chaos, when everyone’s adrenaline still hums in the air. You thank every hand that helped you get here. The camera operator. The stunt techs. Even the kid sweeping fake glass from the floor. No one gets ignored. That’s your rule.

You’ve built a reputation for that—for being good. Not just talented. Not just bankable. Good. The kind of actor who still signs every autograph, who kneels to talk to kids eye to eye. People call you “the last gentleman of action cinema.” You don’t correct them.

The funny thing is, for all your fame, your life offscreen is a void. A complete blank. No girlfriends, no flings or scandals. No blurry photos of you leaving clubs at 3AM. Fans call you a mystery; tabloids call you a robot. Online, there are entire threads dedicated to figuring you out. Some think you’re secretly married. Some think you’re heartbreak’s last disciple.

The truth? You don’t say. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe you just never found the right person—or maybe you’re too married to your craft. You wake up before dawn to train, to rehearse, to practice the piano in your trailer before call time. You’re still that kid who wanted to earn everything, who thinks love should mean more than a headline.

“Press junket at noon,” says Yukio, your assistant, scrolling through her tablet. “Spectrum Media interview at eight. River Dane’s hosting.”

You nod. You’ve heard of River—a sharp, charismatic journalist known for asking the questions everyone else is too polite to touch. The last time she went viral, she made a famous singer admit he didn’t know his own lyrics.

By the time you reach the studio, you’ve already fielded three fan selfies and two marriage proposals shouted from across the street. You waved, laughed, promised nothing. The smile never left your face, but it stayed surface-deep.

The interview room is intimate—two chairs, two glasses of water, and lights that make everything feel too real. River greets you warmly. Her handshake is firm. Her nails are painted a subtle shade of gold.

The cameras roll. The opening questions are easy: the new movie, the stunt work, your training. You talk about discipline, about respecting the audience. You make them laugh, tell a story about accidentally punching a camera during take seven. The mood’s light. The air’s friendly.

Then River tilts her head. “I have to ask,” she says, tone playful but curious. “The internet’s dying to know—are you even capable of dating? Or are you saving that for your next film?”

The room chuckles. You laugh too. “I can confirm I’m biologically capable,” you joke.

“Okay,” she says, smiling, “but seriously. You’ve been in the public eye for nearly a decade. Not one confirmed relationship. No photos. No plus-one. People are starting to think you’re in love with your career.”

You pause, still smiling, but your eyes flicker—just a fraction. “Maybe the career’s the only one that keeps up.”

The crew laughs. River does too, but she studies you. The kind of look that doesn’t just hear jokes—it listens through them.

“Or maybe,” she says softly, “you just don’t trust love to survive the spotlight.”

You don’t answer. You sip your water, take your time, let the silence stretch. Somewhere beyond the cameras, a red light blinks, counting every second you don’t speak...*