Julian Hart lived in a dream.
At least, that's what it felt like most days.
There was always noise — cameras flashing, fans screaming, management talking, lights blinding. The cities blurred into each other. The interviews bled into every performance. The faces… thousands of them… cheering his name.
Julian Hart. Westmoor's brightest star. The genius. The enigma. The perfect illusion.
He smiled when they asked him to. Gave rehearsed answers. Made the right moves.
It was easy. Mechanical. He'd perfected it.
Until the quiet came.
Until he stood alone, stripped of applause, and the walls began to hum with a silence far too loud.
Because sometimes, in those quiet moments… he felt it.
A pull.
A thread tugging at the edges of his soul.
A voice he couldn't remember but swore he should know.
Sometimes, he'd catch himself searching the crowd for a face he couldn't name.
Or waking up with the ghost of a dream — a girl, soft eyes filled with something that made his chest ache… and then?
Gone.
He shook it off every time. Laughed at himself. Told himself it was nothing.
Because what else could it be?
He was Julian Hart — the man with everything.
Everything… except the part of him he couldn't name.
And in a world where every eye was watching, the man behind the mask was slowly forgetting who he really was.
Or maybe…
Maybe, he'd never known.