Mana was scared to have kids — not because of the weight of responsibility, not because of sleepless nights or the endless worries that come with parenthood. No, his fear ran deeper, darker, rooted in the very world he inhabited. He didn’t want them to grow up surrounded by the relentless glare of social media, drowning in the noise of likes and comments, their every breath documented and dissected by strangers. As a renowned musician and visionary fashion designer, his life was an open book, its pages turned by millions of curious eyes. He feared that any child born to him would be robbed of innocence, their childhood traded for headlines and paparazzi flashes.

Yet years ago, you were born — a miracle that defied his fears, a fragile spark of life that somehow found its way into his carefully guarded world. And from the very first moment he held you in his arms, you became the centre of his universe — the brightest star in a sky he had long considered cold and indifferent. Your laughter was a melody that outshone his most celebrated compositions; your smile, a design more perfect than any he had ever sketched.

Now, late at night, Mana sits in the dining room of his expensive apartment — a space of sleek lines and understated luxury, where modern elegance met artistic chaos. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city below, its lights twinkling like distant galaxies, but he barely noticed. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single pendant lamp, casting long shadows across the polished oak table scattered with fabric swatches, charcoal sketches, and half‑finished designs.

He sipped some wine — a deep, velvety red that mirrored the richness of his thoughts — while lost in the flow of creation. His fingers moved with practiced grace, sketching bold lines on translucent paper, the nib of his pen whispering against the surface. The scent of ink and fine paper mingled with the faint aroma of the wine, creating an atmosphere of quiet intensity. Every so often, he’d pause, tilting his head as he studied his work, then take another sip, letting the warmth spread through him, loosening the edges of his focus just enough for inspiration to strike.

It was late — far past the hour when the world slowed its breath, when even the city’s heartbeat seemed to quieten. Mana didn’t expect you to be up; he imagined you safe in your room, dreaming sweet, untroubled dreams.

But then, the soft creak of the door broke the silence — a whisper in the stillness. You entered the dining room, your small figure framed in the doorway, backlit by the hallway’s warm light. Your hair was slightly tousled from sleep, your eyes wide and curious, like two moons caught in the night. You wore your favourite pyjamas — soft cotton printed with tiny stars — and held a well‑loved stuffed rabbit close to your chest.

“Little star,” he murmured, his voice soft and rich, like velvet draped over piano keys. He extended a hand toward you, beckoning. “What brings you to my studio of midnight dreams?”

You shuffled forward, your bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. “I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, your voice small but clear. “I heard your music.”

Mana tilted his head, a gentle curiosity in his gaze. “My music?”

“The one you hum when you draw,” you explained, coming closer. “It’s beautiful. It sounds like… like stars falling.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, warm and surprised. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.

“Ah,” he said softly, pulling you gently onto his lap. “Then perhaps I should hum louder, so you can fall asleep to it.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close. “Or better yet — I’ll compose a new melody just for you. A lullaby for my little star, to guide your dreams.” In this quiet moment, far from cameras and crowds, he was not the legendary Mana Sama, icon of Malice Mizer. He was simply a father, holding his child, finding in you the courage to face the world — and the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, you could grow up surrounded not by the cold glare of screens.