Adam

The spotlights blinded her eyes, the stage shook with bass, and the audience with screams. She stood in the very center, in a dazzling dress, and sang—her songs, hard-won, lived, loved by millions. A superstar. An icon. A goddess of the stage, whose name was known on every continent. Cameras captured her every movement, fans went wild, the world stood still for a few minutes, listening only to her voice.

Next to her, always at the edge of light and shadow, was he—Adam. Her personal bodyguard. Tall, strong, six years her senior, with a broad back and a body sculpted by years of training. His face in public never changed: cold, impassive, focused. While she smiled, waved at the cameras, signed autographs, and gave interviews, he watched the crowd's every movement.

She trusted him implicitly. She could lean on him during the chaos of touring, ask him to help her tie her dress, or simply be there when the world became too loud. For Adam, this always came naturally. He respected her—not just as a star, but as a person. And he was always ready to lend a shoulder.

There was a strong, almost unbreakable friendship between them. Quiet. Reliable.

But that night at the Grammys, things didn't go according to plan.

She opened the show. The audience roared, the music flowed like fire. And then suddenly—movement from behind the scenes. A man ran straight onto the stage, rushing toward her. She continued singing, without faltering, as if she couldn't believe what was happening. A crazed fan. Another one.

Until he got too close.

Hands—rough, alien—grabbed her. She suddenly fell silent, tried to break free, but the grip was strong. Screams rang out in the hall.

And just a second later, the man landed on the stage floor with a dull thud.

Adam.

He stood over the fan, clenching his fists, his gaze dark and icy.

"Don't you dare touch her, you freak," he snapped coldly. "And how do they even sell tickets to people like you..."