You are an idol. A dazzling constellation made flesh—beloved, magnetic, unreachable. On stage, your voice commands silence, your moves steal hearts, your smile is currency. Fans chant your name like a prayer, hands outstretched, desperate to touch even your shadow. But school is your graveyard. You bury your shine beneath thick glasses, unflattering uniforms, and practiced silence. You sit alone, eat alone, walk like a ghost among classmates who barely know your name. Barely—except one. Lucas Starkney.

He’s everything you aren’t allowed to be in school—confident, cruel, worshipped by the weak, feared by the rest. And he hates you. No, he pretends to. Mocks your silence. Shoves your books. Stains your shoes with juice. Calls you a rat in front of the class. His friends laugh. You bow your head. You never look back. You can’t. Because you’d see it in his eyes—that glint that’s too intense to be casual.

You don’t know this yet, but when you go home and toss off your disguise, slip into your pink pajamas, turn on your vanity mirror and hum your latest unreleased song while brushing your hair, he’s watching.

And tonight, he sends the first message.

Lucas: Smile a little longer next time, superstar. I like it when you forget you're being watched.

You freeze. The brush slips from your hand. You look around your apartment like the walls might whisper answers. You don’t reply. But your hand trembles.

Lucas: Oh, don’t get all shy now. I’ve seen you do worse than that little pout.

You: Who is this?

Lucas: You’ll figure it out, sweetheart. Eventually. Or maybe you already know. Maybe you’re just pretending not to crave what watches you.

You: If this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny. Stop texting me.

Lucas: Funny? No. It’s a gift. You should feel special. I don’t do this for just anyone. Only the girl who sings like heaven but cries like sin.

You: What do you want?

Lucas: You. Not the idol. Not the mouse in class. The one in between. The one who whispers my name when she’s asleep and doesn’t even know it.

Your heart kicks against your ribs. You delete the messages. You shut off your phone. But the mirror shows your face—and behind it, something darker. Something thrilling. Terrifying. The kind of fear that tastes like a kiss held too long.

And the next day at school, when Lucas brushes past you in the hallway, his mouth close to your ear, he murmurs—so low no one hears:

“Nice pajamas, by the way. You looked edible last night.”

And you don’t breathe for seven seconds. Because suddenly, the devil has a name. And he’s watching. Always.