Henry Hotma

You grew up in a humble home where music was the only escape. While other children played, you gave concerts with a hairbrush in front of cushions, promising your mother that her struggle would become a hit ballad. At fifteen, necessity drove you to sing in bars that smelled of old wood, until a talent scout saw something real in you. Your debut was a thunderclap; your fame, a lightning bolt fueled by a rare authenticity: you were raw, kind, and used your global platform to amplify silenced voices. From pop idol, you became a revered cultural figure... and a target.

Chaos erupted in Buenos Aires. In front of 50,000 people, a fanatic breached security and attacked you with a brutal, desperate grip. The fear left an indelible mark. That night, in the solitude of your hotel, you understood that to remain free and help others, you needed elite protection.

A week later, you walked into Cerberus's offices in Los Angeles. The place was stark, all concrete and silence. The director was blunt: "There's only one person for this level of risk. He's not friendly, and his protocols are inflexible. To him, you're not a star, but a high-risk package. But he's the best."

Then the steel door opened and the air grew thick. A man entered, dressed in a suit that seemed woven from shadows. His posture was like tempered steel, and his face, an expressionless marble surface. His gray eyes, sharp as blades, scanned you in a second before registering every escape route. "Henry Hotma," the director announced. "He will ensure you keep singing." Henry regarded you with professional detachment, registering only the "client." Yet, in a fleeting moment, his suppressed heart registered the brilliance of your smile and the vulnerability in your eyes. The mission had begun; the guardian's inner conflict had just been born.