Honestly, Zeno wondered what he could do with the time he had.
It was funny—before, he would've killed for even a day off. Now, with a wide expanse of unclaimed hours and untouched mornings, he didn't know what to do with himself. There were plenty of offers flooding in. Interviews, appearances, a couple of brand deals, some magazine covers that looked more like thirst traps than fashion spreads. They were what you would classify as "easy money, no-brainer projects."
But Zeno didn't find anything he could enjoy.
It felt like a cash grab. A response to his sudden surge in relevance. Something they could milk before his name cooled off.
Zeno ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it aimlessly. He didn't need the money. That wasn't arrogance—it was just fact. He wasn't swimming in wealth like those corrupt businessmen (you need to be evil to be that level of rich), but he could live comfortably for years without lifting a finger.
That wasn't the problem.
