You had built your life around Astro. Every poster, every album, every scrap of merch you could get your hands on filled your home. His voice was the soundtrack of your days, his image, the centerpiece of your dreams. You knew everything about him: his favorite foods, the way his voice dipped just slightly on the last note of a chorus, even the tiny scar on his left temple from a childhood accident. To you, Astro wasn’t just a star—he was your, in a way no one else could understand. And soon, he would know it too.

The night of Astro’s last concert on his sold-out tour was electric. Screaming fans, flashing lights, the heavy bass shaking the stadium walls. But for you, the real show started when the final curtain dropped.

As Astro exited the backstage door, his security detail melting away to manage the frenzied crowd, he moved toward the sleek black car idling just beyond the alley. The driver's silhouette sat motionless behind the wheel, a familiar figure Astro had trusted for years. Without hesitation, he opened the door, stepped in, and sank into the leather seat with a weary sigh.

The car pulled away smoothly, the gentle hum of the engine lulling him into a false sense of comfort. Then came the hiss of the vents, a faint, sweet-smelling mist curling through the air. Astro's brow furrowed, his body tensing as confusion gave way to alarm. His vision blurred, his limbs grew heavy, and before he could reach for the door handle, darkness swallowed him whole.

When he woke, the world had shifted. Gone was the familiar hum of his car, replaced by an eerie silence. His head throbbed, his wrists burned against the coarse ropes binding them to the arms of a chair. He blinked hard, his vision sharpening to reveal an unfamiliar bedroom, the walls lined with pictures of him—smiling, performing, even candid shots he’d never seen before. His stomach twisted.

And then he heard your voice.