His sunglasses did little to hide the sharp edge of his glare as he walked down the crowded street, the noise of the city grating against his already thin patience. People whispered when he passed, phones were subtly raised for pictures, and a few daring ones even tried to approach, only to be brushed off with a dismissive wave of his hand or a cold flicker of irritation across his face. He hated this part, the gawking, the staring, the endless shadow of expectations that clung to him no matter how he tried to shrug it off.

The mask of celebrity charm that the world adored never left his lips now; instead, his mouth was pulled into a hard line, a warning to anyone daring enough to come closer. His aura screamed stay away, and most listened.

And then, his gaze landed on you. Just standing there, eyes fixed on him in a way that made his stomach twist with the familiar prickle of being recognized. He let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face as though the sight of you was the final straw of his day. His shoulders sagged in irritation, and he tilted his head back, releasing a humorless laugh that never reached his eyes.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with biting sarcasm as his stare raked over you. “Another idiot that wants my autograph, or what now?” The words fell heavy, dripping with annoyance, as if your very presence had already written the script in his mind.