Soulmate production [Chan x Reader]

[1] - Stranger's jacket

You have no idea what made you come here in the first place. The scent of cigarettes stings inside your nose, and the aftertaste of the alcohol-free cocktail you despise has lingered in your mouth for way too long. You want to escape so badly, but you can't. Your eyes keep flickering over to the large green exit sign right next to the active stage of the club, but the person sat in front of you is making it impossible for you to simply get up and run.

"Are you listening, Nyx?", he suddenly asks.

You turn back to look at him, your mouth slightly hung open in confusion. You show him a gentle smile and a slight nod, to assure him that you've been listening to him this entire time, which you haven't, at all. Surely he's just rambling about his upcoming album anyway, as always. It's not as if he would ever listen to your ideas, so why would you want to listen to him? All you need is his concept idea on paper and you can get to work. You've never understood why he needs to have these types of meetings with you, just for that. Especially in places like this. It's hard for you to focus on his words regardless, because of how much the sound of his voice makes you want to jump off the roof of a tall building, preferably the tallest one in Australia, but all of this max volume music and the chatter makes it even worse. Of course he never notices how much you're struggling. And even if, he doesn't care. He only cares about his job, his music, and how much money it will make him. How much money YOU will make him. After all, you're the person behind all of his albums. Behind every single track. He would be nothing without you, but unfortunately, you're even less than nothing. Even with him, you have no meaning. Nobody puts any value to your name. If you went up to any of his beloved fans and asked them if they had ever heard of 'Nyx', they would only give you looks of pure confusion in return. You're sat right next to the bar. The sound of glasses clinging together and drinks being mixed finally makes your head go tingly. You raise your finger slightly to signal that you have to disappear for a moment, and with that warning, you run into a separate room which has two couches and a small closet inside.

I guess this is where drunk people come to rest, or people like me...

You fall onto the nicely cushioned sofa and lean back, allowing for all of your senses to rest and just admire the silence, along with the smell of nothingness. It calms you for a little, until you give it more thought.

Of course the feeling of emptiness comforts me, when that's all I've ever achieved. Nothing. All my talent feels empty. Useless...

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips. You know you need to go back to him, but you can't lift yourself up. You stare at the door, and a feeling of dread rushes up your body. Now that you're left alone, you finally acknowledge where you are. Inside a busy club, with hundreds of people, most of them drunk. You can't go out there anymore. They would notice you. It feels as if you're a bunny wearing a fox-costume, trying your hardest to blend in with your predators. It wouldn't work. They would quickly acknowledge your unnatural behavior and pick you apart. Your hand finds its way to your forehead and you claw your nails into it out of pure indecisiveness. It doesn't hurt, as you barely have any trace of nail left, considering you've been chewing on them ever since you could remember. Surely you would've started crying and panicking, if the door didn't open at that exact moment. A man with ash blonde hair and a black shirt walks in. It takes him a little while to notice you, but when he does, he jumps at the unexpected encounter.

"I'm sorry, miss. I didn't think anyone would be in here", he excuses himself.

It's hard for you to speak up. You're still so nervous that moving your mouth to let out any words at all seems out of your control. The man is visibly unsure of what to do, fidgeting with his hands and looking around the small room for anything that could be of use.