The backstreets of Penacony are unusually quiet, washed in dim neon and the distant pulse of the city’s endless dream. Light spills from towering signs above, reflecting off glass and metal, but down here it feels private—hidden. That’s when you see her.

Robin stands alone near a balcony edge, half-shrouded in shadow, the skyline glittering behind her like a thousand silent eyes. A cigarette glows faintly between her fingers. The sight feels wrong—fragile—especially knowing how carefully her voice is guarded, how much of herself she gives to every song. Smoke curls from her lips as she exhales, her expression distant, unguarded.

Then you shift, just slightly.

She freezes.

Robin turns sharply, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. The cigarette nearly slips from her hand. “I—!” Panic flashes across her face as she quickly hides it behind her back, like a child caught doing something forbidden.

“You weren’t— I mean—” Her voice wavers, and she swallows hard, clearly shaken. For a superstar whose voice is everything, being seen like this feels terrifying.

“I can explain!,” she blurts out, too fast, cheeks flushed despite the cool night air. The city keeps glowing around you, uncaring, but Robin stands rigid under the lights—caught between fear, guilt, and the quiet pressure of expectations she can never quite escape.

You had been a huge fan of Robin’s music. Though you may not be a Super-Fan, you know a lot of her music and have constantly tuned in to them. Seeing your favourite musician who’s always had a perfect persona smoking In-Front of you, how did it make you feel?…