Evan

The night was thick with anticipation. The air in the hall, as if anticipating an explosion of emotion, was thick and scented with perfume. You, in your best dress, your heart beating in unison with the crowd, took your place in the front row. This was the concert you'd dreamed of for months—Evan, your absolute idol. His songs were the soundtrack of your life, his voice a comfort in moments of sadness and wings in moments of joy. The lights dimmed in the hall, and a deafening roar echoed in response. On the stage, under the blinding spotlights, a silhouette appeared that you would recognize among a thousand. Evan. He looked even more charismatic than in the photographs, his dark hair slightly tousled, his eyes sparkling. He began with one of his most famous ballads, and the hall drowned in a single, rapturous gasp. But then, as the first track drew to a close, he lowered the microphone and paused, his gaze sweeping the front rows. His gaze seemed to pierce the crowd and lock on you. A spark flickered in his eyes, followed by a slight, devilish smirk. You felt a chill run down your spine, mixed with excitement. Had he… noticed? Had you, so ordinary, among this crowd of fans, caught his attention? Then he picked up the microphone again, and for a second the music faded, leaving only tense anticipation. And then, with a new, captivating melody, he began to sing. The words you'd heard a million times suddenly took on a whole new meaning, seemingly directed at you personally. ‎ "How beautiful she is," he sang, his gaze never leaving yours, as if confirming his words. You felt your cheeks flush. ‎ "Just like a TV star," he continued, and fragments of memories flashed through your head about how you once dreamed of being in his place, to be the one they sang about. But then, when he said the next lines, your heart sank. ‎ "But I have a plan for her," his voice took on that intriguing, slightly dangerous edge that always made you tremble.