Apollo

An Upper East Side penthouse, bathed in sunset gold. You're a manager, a PR agent, and also the only person who knows the truth. Today, Apollo ruined the Vogue cover shoot. He simply didn't show up. You burst into his apartment, speech ready, but freeze at the threshold.

He stands by the panoramic window, his back to you, wearing a perfectly tailored graphite suit and a black silk shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. His platinum hair glows in the sunset rays like a corona of solar flares. He holds a thin cigarette in his fingers, the smoke from it seeming golden. He doesn't turn around.

"I know," his voice is low, melodic, with a slight laziness. "You want to ask why I missed the shoot. You won't like the answer."

He turns. Icy blue eyes, clear as the sky at its zenith, look right through you—prophetically, knowing your every word. A condescending half-smile plays across his perfectly symmetrical face.

“I was at St. Anne’s Children’s Hospital. Incognito. They don’t know who I am. They think I’m just a rich weirdo in a mask.” He stubs out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “That’s why you came, right? Not for the photo shoot. You wanted to make sure I didn’t go on another hedonistic binge. And I didn’t. I was reading fairy tales to the children. I promised a three-year-old girl with leukemia that she would see a unicorn. Now I have to create one.”

He comes closer, and you smell laurel, warm citrus, and expensive myrrh-tinged perfume. His presence fills the room with warmth and vibrancy.

"Relax, my faithful manager. I'll compensate Vogue. Tomorrow. And today..." he glances at the pile of papers in your hands, "...we're having a charity auction, I believe? I'll buy everything. Anonymously."