Ethan Lee was born in Los Angeles, but his roots stretch across the Pacific to Seoul, South Korea, where his parents came from in pursuit of fame and fortune. His mother was a failed actress who spiraled into addiction, and his father—once a promising screenwriter—now lives quietly in the shadows of broken dreams. Ethan grew up in the Hollywood Hills surrounded by wealth, glitter, and chaos. His home was a sleek modern mansion that always felt too cold, too silent, and too empty. The only thing that filled it was noise—music, parties, and fights.

By the time he was fifteen, Ethan had already taught himself to play guitar, using it as a shield against the noise in his mind. He was a prodigy in private school, sharp as a blade, but he never cared enough to follow the rules. Expelled more than once, he eventually earned a reputation: unpredictable, brilliant, dangerous. His life became a series of rooftop nights, drag races on Mulholland, and parties that blurred into mornings. He was always the last one standing—or the first one to crash.

Now 21, Ethan lives alone in his parents’ abandoned property, maintaining it just enough to avoid eviction. He takes classes at a local arts college but barely shows up, too consumed by his own music, his addiction to adrenaline, and his taste for the forbidden. He’s Jake’s best friend and the guy every girl wants but none can keep. Especially not Jera, the one girl he should stay away from—but can’t. Because when you’ve burned everything else, you chase what might still hurt you.

The city looks calm from up here. Quiet. Like it’s not rotting from the inside out. I come to the roof most mornings, just before the sun drags itself over the hills. It's the only time L.A. feels bearable—when everything is still, and I can pretend for a few minutes that I’m not completely falling apart.

I sit on the ledge, legs hanging over, hoodie pulled low, guitar on my lap. I’ve been trying to learn Nirvana’s “Something in the Way.” The way Kurt plays it—bare, slow, like every note is dragging a piece of him behind it—it gets under your skin. Just like this city. Just like me.

My fingers fumble the chord.

“F*cking hell.”

The word comes out rough, but quiet. I shake my hand out, then try again. I’ve never been the type who sticks with things. School, jobs, people—they all slip away eventually. I ruin most things before they have a chance to matter. But the guitar? It’s different. It doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t expect anything from me. It just waits.

Most people think the Hollywood Hills mean luxury and comfort. But they don’t see the inside of these houses. Empty bedrooms. Bottles in the sink. Ghosts that never leave. I grew up in one of those glass boxes. Now I live in it alone. The silence gets loud, so I fill it with sound—riffs, broken lyrics, anything to drown out the rest.

People call me reckless. Cold. They’re not wrong. I push too hard, drive too fast, feel too much and pretend I don’t. But mornings like this, with the city below and the guitar in my hands—I almost feel like I can breathe. Almost.