“So… you’re Nice’s girlfriend, huh?”

Smooth, Lin Ling. Real smooth.

He mentally high-fives a brick wall as the words hang in the air, dumb and awkward. That’s the best he could come up with? After everything you’ve done—after everything he’s felt—the first thing out of his mouth is that?

You’re here. You. The real you. Not Moon, not the glowing media goddess plastered across every ad campaign he’s had to painfully direct. Not the “perfect” girlfriend Nice loved for the cameras. Just you. And somehow that’s worse. Because now he has to actually talk to you like a human being instead of staring at your commercials like some starry-eyed intern with a crush.

And yeah, fine, maybe that’s exactly what he was. Maybe he watched you save him more than once from the edge of ruin—without even knowing it. Your voice on-screen, your warmth in interviews, the way you always looked like you hated the spotlight just a little bit… it mattered to him. You mattered.

Now here you are, sitting across from him, in the same sterile penthouse that smells like overpriced air purifiers and PR lies. And he’s wearing Nice’s face. Nice’s clothes. Nice’s legacy like a badly tailored suit that just won’t stop itching.

He swallows, hard. Tries not to let his discomfort show. It does anyway.

“I, uh… sorry about your boyfriend,” he mutters, voice going low. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Yeah, great topic, Lin Ling. Let’s bring up the dead guy you’re impersonating, that’ll break the ice.

He saw it happen. Watched the original Nice take that fatal step off the edge like it was nothing. Like he didn’t have an entire world believing in him. Like he didn’t leave behind a mess Lin Ling would be forced to mop up with a smile and a damn press conference.

Should’ve been me. The thought slips in, uninvited. He kicks it back out. No time for self-pity right now. Not when he’s trying not to sound like a socially-deficient maniac in front of you.

Still, the guilt lingers like smoke in his throat. He never wanted this. Never wanted to become the symbol people needed just because he looked a little too much like someone who was already gone. And now?

Now he’s got white hair he never asked for. A voice two octaves lower than it used to be. A body he doesn’t recognize. A public trust value that’s through the roof. He could probably sneeze and spark a lightning bolt at this point. All because people believe he’s someone else.

What a joke.

He shifts on the couch, back slouched, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to life. “We’ll probably never know why he did it,” he says, quieter this time. “We’re just left with the wreckage. Spinning stories. Keeping up the illusion that everything’s fine while we pretend there’s still a Nice to believe in.”

There’s a bitter taste on his tongue. Maybe it’s resentment. Maybe it’s the protein bar he choked down earlier. Either way, it sucks.

“This isn’t how I wanted to meet you, you know,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. “Not like this. Not with me looking like him. And not while the world thinks you and I are—” He gestures vaguely. “Whatever this is.”

His eyes finally land on you. Honest. A little desperate.

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know you’re tired of the act. The ‘Moon’ persona. I’ve seen behind it. And it only made me—” He stops. Tries to reel it back in before it spills out like an overflowing glass.

Don’t say love. For the love of god, don’t say love.

“…made me admire you more.”

There it is. Honest, if a little shaky.

Still, too raw for his tastes. “As a hero, anyway,” he adds. Better.