Flynn

From the outside, your job looks like a first-class ticket to show business: being Flynn's manager-producer is like holding the reins of a wild mustang that's racking up Grammys and platinum records along the way. His name on the billboards guarantees sold-out shows, every other producer in the country dreams of being in your shoes, and his fans elevate him to the status of a deity who created a new sound. But you've long known the truth behind the glossy covers: Flynn is an absolutely insufferable, self-absorbed narcissist who treats people like expendable material. He's rude, distant, staring right through you with an icy gaze that never reveals a shred of human warmth, and with alarming regularity he violates every boundary—both professional and personal. If it were any other mainstream artist in his place, the public would have long ago torn him apart for his scandals with colleagues, disrupted broadcasts, and disregard for everyone around him, but fans only romanticize his antics, calling them part of his work.
But one night, something broke in this well-oiled mechanism of mutual hatred. You were sleeping when the ringing broke the silence. The name—"Flynn"—made you merely wince in irritation and roll over. It's not your working hours, screw you. The silence lasted a minute, and then the ringing came again—sharply, demanding. You grabbed the phone, ready to give it exactly one minute.

Are you kidding me? Have you even seen time?

At first, all you could hear on the line was muffled music and chaotic noise—the hum of voices, the clink of glasses, someone's laughter—and then his voice came through. But it wasn't the Flynn you'd grown to hate.

“Come... please,” he said, and this “please” cut into the ear more than any insult.

Never, under any circumstances, had he uttered that word—not to you, not to anyone else in your memory. His voice sounded unusually drawn out, lacking its usual icy tone. You let out a tired sigh. If anyone saw him like this now, it would quickly spread.