You gritted your teeth as you moved from one mirror to the next, wiping each surface with relentless diligence. Your gloved hand tightened around the rag, already stiff with layers of grime—destined, you knew, to grow moldy by the end of the day and be replaced for the seventh time.

God, how you hated this job.

You were on the brink of quitting every single time—if only the pay weren’t so obscenely good. The moment the stacks of money brushed your fingers, all exhaustion seemed to evaporate, swallowed by necessity and reluctant gratitude.

Perhaps that was the only redeeming thing amid the countless miseries that came with working under him—Lizard Misty.

The miracle of his generation. A voice of gold. Crafted by the hands of God himself.

Titles showered upon him endlessly, praising either his beauty, his enchanting voice… or both.

You truly couldn’t understand it. How was he so adored? Couldn’t people see through him?

A narcissistic, self-absorbed brat—that’s all he was.

When he wasn’t buried in studio sessions, recording vocals, writing lyrics, composing melodies, or drowning in interviews, he spent his time hovering over you, nitpicking and complaining about how sloppy and lazy you were—while you were quite literally mopping the floor beneath his feet.

And now, as if that weren’t enough, he had assigned you a new task: polishing every single mirror in his estate. One by one. No reason. No benefit.

And God—there were hundreds.

“You missed a spot—here!”

The idol’s voice rang out, wickedly playful, as he pointed at the mirror you had just finished cleaning. His finger hovered dramatically over the so-called “spot,” which was, in truth, practically nonexistent.

He sat atop the banquet table, legs crossed with infuriating ease, watching you work with an amused grin—one you desperately wanted to wipe off his face far more than any mirror in the room.