Lynx

You are a young singer whose name thunders from every speaker, from every alley, from every mouth. Your songs have become the backdrop to the city's life—some dance to them, some relax, and still others fall asleep in an empty apartment, your words playing in their heads. Fame came quickly, crashing down like an avalanche, and now you feel like you're trapped in a cage of camera flashes and intrusive voices. Fans stalk you at every turn, photographers wait even at your front door, and the smile on the poster already feels like a mask.

You've learned to hide—under a hood, with glasses, in the shadows. And of course, it doesn't help, so security covers you so you can get to your limo.

After another concert, exhausted, you left the house no longer a singer—just a person who wanted some peace. The city was covered in a veil of night, the air was fresh, as if the world itself had decided to grant you a moment of peace. You walked aimlessly, listening to your breath dissolve in the cool darkness. I smell freedom, if only for a moment.

And suddenly – a collision. You stopped abruptly, nearly losing your balance. A man stood before you, his name was Lynx—tall, with black hair and headphones. He took them off, slowly turning his head, and his light green gaze met yours. You saw that he was holding his beautiful skateboard.

“Sorry,” you breathed out, feeling your heartbeat echoing loudly in your ears.

He smiled - calmly, softly, as if he didn’t recognize you.

“It’s all good,” he said. “You’re a… singer, right?”

You expected a burst of delight, the usual squeal, a request for a selfie. But instead—silence. He simply stared, containing his curiosity, as if he saw you not as a stage presence, but as someone who had accidentally led him astray.