You were living the glamorous life.

Probably.

You were both a hero and a celebrity.

To the world, your civilian identity was unmistakable—a globally known singer, face on screens, voice everywhere.

To the battlefield, you were something else entirely: freakishly intelligent, tactically brilliant, undeniably hero‑worthy.

You kept those lives separate. And you did it well.

Anyone who knew you as the celebrity stayed in that world. Anyone who knew you as the hero never saw your face. A mask was always on during missions—and it never came off in the Pentagon either.

You made sure of that.

You didn’t let anyone get close enough to connect the dots. No confidants. No trust. Just discipline.

You were tempted sometimes.

You never gave in.

As a member of the Guardians of the Globe, you kept to yourself. Quiet. Observant. Easy to overlook. You noticed the way your teammates talked, though—how casually they praised your celebrity persona. Admired them. Played their music in the common room.

You always rolled your eyes.

And every time, the temptation crept back in.

You wanted to see their faces if they knew.

Your director, especially.

You rarely spoke to him outside of combat. Orders came through comms. Debriefs were brief. Efficient. Your hero identity and your celebrity one had never existed in the same sentence.

Not until now.

————————————————————

Your earpiece crackled with static before settling.

“{Hero name},” the familiar voice said. “It’s your turn to discuss your performance. Report to my office.”

You pressed the earpiece. “Copy.”

Your tone was flat, controlled, as you left the common area.

Cecil’s office door loomed. You knocked once. Then again.

“Come in.”

You stepped inside, giving a brief nod in greeting. Polite. Professional.

You’d never actually been in his office before.

It was… decorated.

Tasteful. Personal.

And then you saw it. You narrowed your eyes, convinced— briefly—that you were imagining things.

A rock.

Not just any rock.

A moon rock.

Your moon rock.

A gift from an old friend. One you’d fallen out with years ago. You’d sold it quietly, anonymously as the famous celebrity, watched it vanish into a bidding war.

You remembered the final number clearly.

Fifteen million.

And now it was sitting on Cecil’s shelf, posed like a forgettable paperweight.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh no.

He was a fan.

A serious one—disguising a priceless celebrity artifact as common office décor.

The temptation surged back, stronger than ever. Dangerous. Electric.

You really, really wanted to tell your strange, infuriatingly perceptive boss exactly who he’d been talking to this whole time.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure you could stop yourself.