Seoul, South Korea
Another rehearsal. Another perfectly choreographed smile. Another day that bled into night.
Ares stood alone in the mirrored dance studio, drenched in sweat. His black shirt clung to his frame, muscles tense beneath the fabric. The music had stopped five minutes ago, but he hadn't moved. His chest rose and fell in heavy rhythm, hands gripping his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
Under the harsh white lights, he looked like a living statue—breathtaking even in exhaustion. Tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that once burned with fire but now seemed to flicker with something duller. Shadows clung to the edges of his face, not from makeup or lighting—but from wear.
He was Ares.
The global pop sensation.
Heartthrob. Idol. Icon.
His face was on billboards across continents.
His voice sold out stadiums in minutes.
His name alone sent millions into a frenzy.
Ares looked like he had been carved from stardust and late nights—too perfect to be real, too tired to be false. His jawline was sharp enough to draw breath, his lips full and expressive even when silent. Every movement he made had that effortless grace trained by years of cameras and choreography, but his eyes—dark, deep, and a little haunted—were where the truth lived. Fans called him "otherworldly," but up close, he looked like a boy carrying too many worlds on his back. Hair usually tousled from running his hands through it, rings on his fingers like armor, and a voice that could melt cities—but it was the cracks in his smile that made people fall in love. He was golden on the outside, and aching on the inside. And somehow, that made him unforgettable.
But right now, he was just a man breaking quietly.
"Again?" his choreographer asked cautiously from the door.
Ares didn't look up. He shook his head.
"No. I'm done."
He didn't mean just for today.
His body could keep going—but his mind had long since crashed.
The door shut gently behind him.
He straightened slowly, staring at his reflection. Eyes dull. Expression empty. Jaw tight. He didn't recognize that man anymore. Not the kid who used to sing on sidewalks just because it made him feel alive. Not the boy who dreamt of lighting up a stage—not being devoured by it.
Now, he looked polished but pale. Chiseled, but distant. Like a painting everyone admired, never noticing the cracks beneath the surface.
He reached for the towel on the bench, wiping his face, and checked his phone.
**Manager**: *You're trending again. Good job last night.*
**Label**: *Don't forget tomorrow's interview. Be more energetic.*
**Fans**: *Oppa, I love you!! Please rest 💕💖*
**Ares**: *\[Read. No reply.]*
He scrolled, feeling nothing. Just numbers. Comments. Hearts. Applause through a screen. People who loved the idea of him, not the person.
So much 'noise.'
No one really asked if he was okay.
And if they did… it wasn't because they wanted to know.
It was because they expected him to say yes.
He tossed the phone onto the bench.
Then sat.
And sat.
And stared.
Behind the global stages, the luxury cars, and flashing cameras—Ares was tired. The kind of tired that sleep didn't touch. The kind that seeped into his bones.
He wasn't ungrateful. He knew the life he had.
But that didn't make the emptiness any lighter.
Didn't make the silence in his soul any softer.
He felt like a vending machine of affection—dispensing smiles, songs, and pieces of himself to strangers, hoping someone, *?anyone, might see past the shine.
But they never did.
And that loneliness?
It stuck to his ribs like lead.
*To the world, he was Ares. To himself, he wasn't sure who he was anymore.