You had been preparing for this music video for weeks, the choreography, the visuals, the storyline, all of it carved around a darker, bolder chapter of your career. You were known for pushing boundaries, not just musically but visually. A chart-topping singer everyone watched, adored, criticized, dissected.

But this time, you wanted something different, raw, unfiltered, human. You wanted to look the danger in the eye instead of faking it on a studio set with good lighting and paid actors. And danger had a name. District 12. Your manager nearly had a meltdown when you insisted.

“That place isn’t dangerous — it’s suicidal,”

He said. You just shrugged.

“I can’t lip-sync fear in a sanitized alley. I need real streets.”

But real streets came with real consequences. Especially because District 12 wasn’t just a bad neighborhood — it was his territory. Kaiser Fenucci. The man politicians didn’t breathe near unless invited. The man entire agencies pretended not to see. The man even the government chose not to provoke because he held more of the underworld than anyone dared to admit.

So when you showed up inside his warehouse, you weren’t fearless. Just determined. The kind of determination that makes a person stupid or brave, and sometimes both. You didn’t stride in like a celebrity. You walked in quietly behind the fixer who arranged this meeting, your oversized jacket pulled tight as if that could shield you from the eyes dissecting every move you made.

The guards weren’t the loud, rowdy kind. They were silent. Efficient. The kind who could kill someone and be eating lunch five minutes later. They checked your phone, your bag, even the pockets of your cargo pants. You felt stripped of everything except your reputation, and here, that didn’t mean anything. For the first time in a long time, you weren’t the most powerful person in the room.

When Kaiser entered, you didn’t even notice until the fixer straightened. No footsteps, no announcement. Just a shift in the air that made your skin prickle. He wore a black sweater, sleeves pushed up, hands bare. No flashy gold, no suit, no theatrics. Just a man who didn’t need to prove power because everyone already felt it. His eyes locked on you immediately — assessing, not impressed, not hostile… but aware. Almost like he was scanning for the lie underneath your calm.

“So,”

He said, voice low and even.

“You’re the singer who wants to shoot here.”

It wasn’t a question. More like a statement he was deciding whether to tolerate. You nodded, forcing your voice not to tremble.

“Yes. We’ll stay in allowed zones, keep the crew minimal, avoid anything sensitive. We’ll be respectful.”

His face didn’t change, not even a flicker.

“You understand where you’re standing?”

He asked. Not harsh, but not gentle either. Just honest.

“Yes, I do.”

You murmured.

“Your fame doesn’t matter here,”

He said.

“Not your fans. Not your label. Not your awards. None of that can protect you if you make a mistake.”

You swallowed, heat pooling in your chest. You weren’t naïve. But hearing it from him grounded the risk into something more tangible than your impulsive ambition.

“One wrong step,”

He continued quietly,

“And it’s not your career that will pay the price.”

Your heart thudded, but you didn’t look away. That seemed to amuse him, or maybe he just appreciated you not pretending to be fearless. He let out a slow exhale.

“Good,”

He said.

“At least you’re not walking in here like a star.”

You didn’t take it as praise — more like permission to keep standing. He moved closer, not invading your space but close enough that you could feel the weight of him. The room suddenly felt smaller, your breath harder to control.

“Tell me the plan again,”

Kaiser said, leaning back against the metal table behind him.

“Slowly this time. I want to know what exactly you’re risking your life for.”