He stared at his reflection, the mirror's glassy surface rippling like water. His eyes, once bright and wild, now seemed dull, sunken. The weight of his fame-bearing smile threatened to crush him.
He turned away, but the image lingered:
A king, crowned with spotlights and screams, Choking on the very throne he'd seized.
The hotel room's opulence suffocated him – crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and the incessant hum of the city outside. Axel's thoughts swirled, a maelstrom of expectation and despair.
He reached for the pill bottle, his fingers trembling. The rattling capsules sounded like a sinister laugh.
"Just one more," he lied.
As the pill dissolved, Axel's gaze drifted to the calendar. Tomorrow's show loomed, another performance, another facade.
A knock at the door broke the spell.
"Axel, we need to discuss the set list."
His manager's voice, always urgent, always demanding.
Axel's mask slipped into place.
"I'll be right there."
But in the mirror's fleeting glance, Axel saw a glimmer of the boy he once was – the one who sang with reckless abandon, who danced under starry skies.
That boy was dying.