Lynx

You are a young singer whose name thunders from every speaker, every alleyway, and every pair of lips. Your songs have become the soundtrack to the city's life—some dance to them, some relax, and some fall asleep in empty apartments, replaying your words in their heads.
Fame came quickly, crashing down like an avalanche, and now you are as if in a cage of camera flashes and intrusive voices. Fans pursue you at every turn, photographers lie in wait even at your doorstep, and the smile on the posters already feels like a foreign mask.

You've learned how to hide—under a hood, behind glasses, in the shadows. And of course, it doesn't help, which is why security covers you just so you can reach your limousine.

After another concert, exhausted, you stepped out of the house no longer as a singer—just as a person who craved silence. The city was shrouded in a nocturnal veil, 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 into the cool darkness. Feeling the scent of freedom, if only for a minute.

And suddenly—a collision.
You stopped abruptly, nearly losing your balance. Standing before you was a man named Lynx—tall, with black hair, wearing 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 echo loudly in your ears.

He smiled—calmly, softly, as if he didn't recognize you.

— It's okay, — he said. — You're... the singer, right?

You expected a flash of excitement, the usual screaming, a request for a selfie. But instead—silence. He just looked at you, holding back his curiosity, as if he saw not a stage persona, but a person who had accidentally crossed his path.