Flashing lights. Cameras. Screaming fans.
Adrian Skyre stood on the red carpet, flashing that signature smirk that had made him the most beloved actor of the decade. His tailored obsidian suit shimmered under the camera flashes like starlight bottled into fabric. Microphones fought for his attention, and fans chanted his name like a sacred mantra. "Adrian! Adrian! Over here!"
At just 26, Adrian had become one of the star actor.
Throughout his 8-year acting career, he'd navigated everything from public scandals to personal heartbreaks. The death of his mother. The betrayal of his first manager. The near-breakdown at 22. But for every bruise, there had been a breakthrough. Each role he played carved deeper into the hearts of audiences: the vengeful prince of "Bloodline Requiem," the haunted soldier of "Ashfall," and most recently, the cosmic anti-hero in "Eclipse Reborn."
He was called The Chameleon,The Method Oracle, and even The Last Golden Actor in a time where AIs threatened to replace the human spirit in film.
He had five Golden Arc awards on his mantle. Studios would kill for him. Fans wept for him. Directors molded entire worlds around him.
And yet, as the gala closed and his polished shoes clicked along the marble floors, Adrian's heart thudded with a hollow beat.
Inside the limo, rain traced winding paths on the glass. New-Verra City pulsed outside—neon arteries feeding an electric beast of ambition, technology, and dreams. Adrian leaned his head against the cool window, trying to shake the unease gnawing at his gut.
Adrian is in bed, asleep. But the dream wouldn't leave him.
Two moons hung high in the sky, brighter than anything he had seen before. One glowed a deep red, like blood. The other swirled with purple mist, quiet and cold. Thunder rolled beneath them, shaking the clouds. Winds howled like wild animals. Rain fell in heavy sheets, but the land glowed as if lit by some divine light.
Before him stood a grand palace made of white stone, shining like a beacon in the storm.
A forest of crystal trees howled as the wind whispered a name—"Lorian."
And a voice, not quite his own, had spoken through thunder:
"You are not yet who you were meant to be."
He had woken in a cold sweat, the name seared into his mind. He had never heard it before, but it felt ancient. Familiar. Real.
Who is Lorian? Again, a weird dream. Dammn.it.
He woke up immediately from bed. He walked past his gorgeous room and washed his face like a normal day. Glancing at the mirror:
I should reduce the workload. Perhaps I have amnesia.
After some time, he called his manager. Receiving Adrian's call, manager sung rushed to his Villa.
A roar of metal. Screams.
Everything stopped.
Not with pain, but a pull, like being yanked out of a movie mid-scene. The sound faded, the light collapsed.
And then—darkness.
But not death.