The break is presented as generosity.
Strategic generosity.
"We think a short reset would be beneficial," the marketing director says, hands folded neatly on the table. "Two weeks. Step back. Recalibrate."
Recalibrate.
He sits across from her, posture straight, expression neutral.
"We want you sharp," she continues. "Focused. Fully aligned."
Aligned.
He nods once.
"And then?" he asks.
"Then we continue the rollout. Stronger."
Stronger.
Like this is an interval in a workout.
Not a fracture.
They frame it as care.
Mental wellness.
Sustainability.
Long-term brand health.
No one says burnout.
No one says identity.
No one says you look like a ghost on stage.
He doesn't correct them.
He doesn't offer language they don't want.
He just listens.
Two weeks.
Not freedom.
Not release.
Just pause.
The assistant hands him a revised calendar.
Empty space carved neatly into it.
Fourteen days.
After that, the schedule resumes.
Denser.
More visibility.
More appearances.
More presence.
He traces the blank days lightly with his thumb.
Temporary.
"You'll return refreshed," someone says reassuringly.
He doesn't answer that.
He doesn't know if refreshed is possible.
The penthouse feels different that night.
Less suffocating.
But not lighter.
He stands in the living room with no meeting to attend.
No rehearsal to prepare for.
No interview to script.
Silence stretches in front of him.
He thought this is what he wanted.
Space.
Instead it feels like standing on the edge of something undefined.
He pulls out his phone.
Opens a new message.
Axel.
Not Sunny.
Axel.
You around next week?
Three dots appear faster than expected.
Yeah.
Pause.
Why?
Zane stares at the screen for a moment.
Because I'm drowning.
Because I don't recognize myself.
Because I need something that doesn't feel transactional.
He types instead:
Thinking of coming back for a bit.
The reply is simple.
Okay.
No questions.
No judgment.
Just space.
He exhales slowly.
Later, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror again.
He hasn't looked directly in days.
The face staring back is controlled.
Tired.
Refined.
He studies it longer this time.
Not flinching.
Not avoiding.
Two weeks.
Enough time to breathe.
Not enough to escape.
He places both hands on the counter.
Leans forward slightly.
"They think I'll come back stronger," he says quietly to his reflection.
The word echoes faintly in marble.
Stronger.
He straightens.
Picks up his phone.
Opens Sunny's contact.
He doesn't call yet.
He just looks at her name.
Two weeks.
He doesn't promise the agency anything.
He doesn't promise himself anything either.
He just books the train.
And for the first time in months—
The silence doesn't feel like containment.
It feels like possibility.
Even if it's temporary.