IDOL (Yandere Male x Male Reader)

ACT 2 : Miscommunication

TW: None

Status: Unedited 

___________________________________________

The grey sky above mirrored the turmoil within him, heavy with unshed rain and heavier still with emotions he dared not voice. The cool air carried the scent of impending showers, and every droplet that threatened to fall felt like the universe mocking his descent. He stood, small and insignificant, beneath the colossal glass monolith that was the agency’s headquarters. Its sleek façade gleamed coldly, like a monument to the empire he had once belonged to—an empire from which he was now exiled.

Memories pressed against the walls of his mind, unwanted but relentless: nights spent rehearsing until exhaustion draped over him like a second skin, the euphoric rush of a live broadcast under blinding lights, and the suffocating demands of fans, managers, and the ever-hungry media. He had been everything once: a star, a beacon, a name on everyone's lips. Now, he was nothing more than a faded constellation lost in a galaxy too vast to care about.

“I just hope no one notices me,” he whispered under his breath, though the words lacked conviction. His palms were slick with sweat, and his heart thrummed in his chest, as though desperate to escape his ribcage. Anxiety gnawed at his edges, hollowing him out.

The weight of the glass doors loomed before him. They no longer opened to welcome a prodigal star but a man weighed down by scandal, regret, and desperation—a man with nowhere left to go.

He lingered on the threshold, teetering between retreat and surrender. He hesitated for a moment, thinking about turning back—but where would he go? Back to the streets? Back to the cruel stares of the world that thought he should have vanished for good? The truth was, he had no place left to run.

With a breath as heavy as the overcast sky, he pushed the doors open.

Inside, the sterile brilliance of polished marble and gleaming chrome greeted him. Yet the warmth was as artificial as the lights above. A woman in a perfectly pressed suit stood waiting, her dark hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to keep every emotion imprisoned within. Her smile was immaculate but hollow—a professional courtesy that barely reached her eyes.

"Welcome, Mr. (L/N). We’ve been expecting you," she said, her voice smooth and devoid of any genuine warmth. "Mr. Frost is waiting in his office. I'll escort you there."

He nodded wordlessly, trailing behind her as she led him deeper into the heart of the building.

The halls were a strange juxtaposition: sleek, corporate, and luxurious—yet brimming with tension. Men in black suits lined the walls, their black ties crisp, sunglasses reflecting coldly under the harsh fluorescent lights. Earpieces coiled like serpents at their temples, whispering secrets only they could hear. Their gazes, hidden beneath those opaque lenses, followed him silently, dissecting every step.

If not for the glossy posters of idols plastered on every wall and the LED screens flashing promotional content, one might mistake the place for a mafia’s base, a fortress dressed in corporate clothing. Producers scurried through the halls, barking orders into phones, while exhausted idols trailed behind them, swept along by the relentless tide of schedules and expectations.

They paused briefly at a security checkpoint where one of the guards leaned in to murmur something to the woman leading him. She responded coolly, “He’s a guest for Mr. Frost.” The guard nodded and granted them access without further question.

The elevator doors slid open with a smooth hiss, and they stepped inside, the hum of machinery filling the silence between them. As the woman reached out to press the button for the top floor, she turned to him, her smile still polite but now tinged with the faintest trace of familiarity.