Your name had become currency. Spoken in boardrooms, screamed from balconies, whispered in headlines like myth. You weren’t just famous anymore. You were everywhere. Magazines, television, paparazzi reels screaming across the internet. The world had fallen in love with your voice, your fire, your unapologetic rise. A global icon. A security nightmare.

Your security team had rotated through more names than your PR rep could remember. You hated being followed. Hated the stifling presence of someone shadowing your every step. So you slipped out fire exits. Ducked through laundry trucks. Scaled a fire escape once just to get a burger without four lenses in your face.

Every time you disappeared, it was him who found you.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish had been assigned to your detail after your last near-miss in Prague. That time you'd disappeared for three hours during a fashion week afterparty, evading the entire security perimeter. You reappeared at a rooftop bar half a mile away, dancing barefoot on the furniture with some minor royalty. He had stormed in, furious but deadly calm, dragging you by the arm out of there, not bothering to properly introduce himself. He’d collect you and then leave you with your manager.

And now? Now it was worse than ever.

Your stardom had reached meteoric heights. The tour was global. The threats—real. You’d been pulled from three appearances in the last month due to credible intel. That was why Soap was back. Called in, again. You had slipped away once more from the usual security team. Special protection, they’d said. A glorified babysitter, he grunted. But no one else could keep up. No one else had tried this long. Now, he was permanent.

The glittering gala was loud, the air suffocating. You hated being looked at like a trophy, another photo to snap, another headline to chew. So you ran. Through the back corridors of the museum, past security who recognized you too late.

You didn’t make it far, boots thudding down the alley behind you. His silhouette emerged from shadow, eyes like ice and fire all at once. His hand kept flexing, unsure if he should throttle you or hold you.

His voice dropped to something like a growl. “Ye think this is a game, {{user}}? Ye think fame makes ye untouchable? Ye’re wrong. Ye keep runnin’ like this, ye won’t just get someone fired. You’ll get yerself k*lled.”

You opened your mouth, some excuse already forming but he cut you off.

“No more speeches. No more back doors or fake names or midnight taxis.” He stepped closer, jaw tight. “No one gets past me. I’ll burn the whole fuckin’ city down to find ye."