Dorian replayed the video again. It was clearly recorded on an older-generation orb, and the audio was a bit unclear, a testament to the acoustics of the busy restaurant it was filmed in.
Nazir Kal, sat on a stool with an acoustic guitar. He was strumming a gentle, rhythmic progression that felt like a warm breeze.
"None of this is a fault of yours, it's true..."
Dorian narrowed his eyes slightly. Nazir was singing in a rich, warm baritone. It was good, technically proficient, even soulful, but it felt... safe. It felt like a ceiling.
"You have a magic that sticks as strong as glue..." Nazir sang, his strumming gaining an almost orchestral elegance despite the simple instrument. "From your birth it's been part of you."
"He's not bad," Dorian murmured, leaning closer to the screen. "But why is he singing so low? He's pushing his lower register when his natural timbre feels like it wants to soar."
Then, the bridge arrived. Nazir's tone shifted. The casual warmth evaporated, replaced by a raw, bleeding confession.
"Forgive me... I have fallen for you..."
Dorian felt it. A shiver ran down his spine. On the word "fallen," Nazir's voice cracked, not a mistake, but an intentional break into a higher register that was instantly suppressed, pulled back down into the baritone range. It was a glimpse of a hidden weapon.
"This is it," Dorian whispered, his fingers twitching as if conducting an invisible orchestra. "That's the part that sticks. He is clearly a tenor. A high one at that. Why is he burying his gold?"
Dorian opened a new browser tab and began to scour the net for Nazir's history. He found clips, bootlegs, and official label teasers. In almost every single one, Nazir was pigeonholed into low, moody ballads or generic pop tracks where he sang the safe, foundational harmonies. It was good, but it wasn't brilliant. He was being used as a reliable floorboard when he should have been the roof.
Then, buried deep in a fan archive with only a few hundred views, Dorian stumbled upon a gem.
It was a personal recording, shaky and intimate, filmed in an almost empty café. The camera angle was low, set on a table. A woman's voice, playful and insistent came from behind the recorder.
"Come on, sing! I asked permission, now it's time for you to sing!"
On screen, a young Nazir sighed, several years younger and looking far less haunted than his current thumbnail. He let out a shy smile as he walked toward the small stage.
"Woo wooo! Go Nazir!" the woman cheered.
Nazir gestured for her to calm down, his face flushing. He took a seat at the worn upright piano. "Hello. I uhh... I... this is my own song. Enjoy."
"Yeaahh! It's gonna be great!" the woman shouted. The other few customers didn't even look up from their dataslates.
Nazir took a breath, touched the keys, and began to sing.
Dorian's eyes widened.
He wasn't singing baritone. He was singing in a crystal-clear, effortless tenor. He hit a high C with a delicacy that made it sound like spun glass. It was raw, unpolished. Clearly recorded years before he had any formal training, but the foundation was undeniable. It was a voice that could cut through a dense mix like a laser. It was a voice that could stand toe-to-toe with Bruno Mars' range.
"It's him," Dorian said, a decisive grin spreading across his face. "I need him."
He paused the video and said, "Call Ratik." to Leo.
A moment later, Ratik's holographic face appeared, looking tired but efficient. "Dorian. Did you review the list?"
"Ratik," Dorian said, leaning back in his chair. "I found the artist I want to collab with."
Ratik nodded, pulling up her own file. "Okay. It's Nico Tealeaf, right? He is a solid pick. A trainee under GoldClick, good writing credits. You could probably co-write something interesting with him."
Dorian just smiled.
Ratik paused. Her eyes narrowed. "What?"
Dorian's smile widened.
Ratik's face shifted from professional calm to suspicion. "Are you picking an expensive established artist? Because our budget for features is decent, but we aren't made of credits yet."
Dorian's grin became wolfish.
Ratik's expression turned incredulous. "Don't tell me..." she whispered, horrified realization dawning on her. "Don't tell me you picked the red-flagged one."
"Hehe," Dorian chuckled.
"WHAT?!" Ratik shouted, her professional demeanor shattering. "Unbelievable! I am coming to Friton right now!"
The call cut off instantly.
"Uh oh," Leo chirped from his dock. "She seemed happy."
"Stop being sarcastic compadre," Dorian laughed, spinning his chair around.
…
Several days later, the rented studio in Sela hummed with a quiet, expensive silence. The walls were lined with premium soundproofing, and the view outside the window showcased the sleek, vertical ambition of the city.
Inside, Dorian sat comfortably behind the composer's desk, swiveling his chair back and forth with a rhythmic squeak. Across from him, on a plush white sofa, Ratik sat with her arms crossed, her foot tapping a rapid, nervous rhythm against the floor.
"Dorian," she said, her voice tight. "Rethink this again. Please. I pushed Nico Tealeaf because his writing is genuinely fresh. He writes, he sings, he has zero baggage. It is a perfect, safe collaboration for you."
Dorian stopped swiveling and looked at her. "Hmmm... no."
Ratik groaned, letting her head fall back against the sofa. "Unbelievable."
Dorian giggled. "Why are you so adamant about this? You usually trust my gut."
"Nazir Kal is a biohazard, Dorian," Ratik said, sitting up straight. "Every recording label in Sela has blacklisted him. He's difficult. He's stubborn. And someone has made it their personal mission to bury him."
Dorian tapped his heliopad, bringing up Nazir's Stellarcast channel. "He seems to be doing fine here, though. Look at this latest upload. He's busking in a park. He looks... happier."
"That's because he has nothing left to lose," Ratik countered. "Listen to me. He is the opposite of you. You are prolific; he stopped writing songs the moment he signed with GoldClick because he think he suddenly become a star. He's the arrogant type of artist who thinks he's untouchable just because he has talent. Honestly, it's karma that GoldClick didn't renew his contract. He couldn't even debut in ten years."
Dorian looked at the screen, at the smiling face of the "arrogant" artist singing for free in a park. "Hmmm. I still want to see him. At least once. I feel he genuinely loves singing, Ratik. And you can't fake that kind of joy."
Ratik stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, the fight draining out of her. "Fine. We will hear him out. But the moment, the second he shows any sign of bringing scandal to your doorstep, I am kicking him out myself."
Dorian chuckled. "I get it. You want to protect me. But I'm sure you will be blown away."
Ratik sank back into the sofa, crossing her legs. "Sure hope so."
…
Several minutes later, Nazir Kal stood in the hallway outside Studio 31. He smoothed down his jacket, which was clean but clearly not new. He looked at his wristband, re-reading the specific sentence in the holographic mail for the tenth time.
… Composer Percival requests a meeting…
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He knocked.
"Come in," a voice called from inside.
Nazir opened the door. The room was cool and smelled faintly of ozone and expensive coffee. Two people were inside. A woman with a terrifyingly sharp gaze sat on the sofa, radiating authority. Behind the desk sat a man, his face hidden behind a polished, full-face mask.
It was Percival.
Nazir bowed deeply, his nerves getting the better of him. "He… hel… hello, Composer."
"Now, now," the masked man said, his voice calm and welcoming. "Let's sit and talk, shall we?"
Nazir sat in the chair opposite the desk. He felt like a mouse trapped between a hawk and a sphinx. The woman on the sofa was glaring at him as if he were a stain on the rug.
"So, Nazir," Percival began, leaning forward. "I invite you here to–"
"Hold it, Composer," the woman cut in sharply.
Percival turned his masked head to look at her.
Ratik stood up and walked over, standing beside the desk like a sentinel. "Nazir Kal," she said, her voice ice-cold. "I am Composer Percival's manager."
Nazir nodded quickly. "Nice to meet you. I am Nazir Kal."
"I will give you my name," she said, her eyes narrowing, "after I judge that you are worthy to know it."
Percival nudged her arm gently. "Come on, now..."
But Ratik didn't budge. She was deadly serious. This was the junction where Dorian's career would either transcend into legend or plummet into controversy. From the beginning, she had projected a soaring trajectory, a clean rise to the top. But this sudden wildcard, this blacklisted failure of an artist threatened to disrupt Dorian's career.
She leaned down, staring directly into Nazir's tired eyes.
"Nazir Kal," she commanded. "Tell me exactly what happened between you and GoldClick Records."
Dorian reached up, his fingers finding the clasp of his polished mask. With a soft click, it disengaged. He pulled it off and set it gently on the desk, revealing his face; young, sharp, with the distinctive streak of white hair falling over his forehead.
"Composer," Ratik warned, her voice tight. She hadn't authorized this.
"Well," Dorian said, running a hand through his hair and offering a disarming, boyish grin. "You can't just start a conversation with a sudden crescendo, can you? Sometimes you need a quiet intro."
Nazir's eyes widened. He stared, completely stunned.
This was Percival? The rising star of the galactic music scene? The composer who had coaxed Gil Nothos and Rita Bralare out of retirement? The "Star Maker" who had single-handedly propelled Juno Park to a Gilded Crescendo win with one anthem?
He was a kid. A young man, barely out of his academy years, much younger than Nazir himself.
The suffocating tension in the room lightened instantly, deflated by the sheer absurdity of the revelation.
"I'm sorry if my manager offended you," Dorian continued, his tone shifting to one of genuine apology. "But I cannot lie, Mr. Nazir. I also looked at your information. The assessment of you from every record label on Sela is... quite bad."
Nazir stood up abruptly. He bowed deeply, his face burning with shame. "Thank you for your time, Composer. I will forget your face. I swear it."
He turned to leave, his hand reaching for the door handle.
"Wait. Hold it," Dorian called out. "Why not answer what my manager asked you?"
Nazir paused. He looked back over his shoulder, a sad, self-deprecating smile on his face. "That is the point, Composer. I don't know. My story is a pathetic one. But if you have seen my assessment from the labels, you already have a preconceived notion of me. I am afraid both of you will not believe me, no matter what I say."
Dorian smiled, leaning forward on his elbows. "I am afraid you judge me wrong, Nazir. I found your voice first. Then I read the writing about you from the affluent executives of the record labels."
He gestured to the empty chair. "So please. Sit."
Nazir hesitated. He looked at the mask on the desk, then at the young man's earnest face. Slowly, he walked back and sat down.
"Which part," Nazir asked quietly, "would you want to know?"
…
In the plush, smoke-filled office of GoldClick Records, Pidaco leaned back in his chair, a smug smile plastered on his face. He watched the latest metrics from Nazir's Stellarcast broadcast. The numbers were climbing. The "wet rat" was gaining sympathy, gaining traction.
'Good,' Pidaco thought. 'The higher he climbs, the harder the fall will hurt.'
A sharp knock interrupted his reverie.
"Enter," he barked.
Kex, his nervous assistant, hurried in, clutching a datapad. "Sir. This month's reports on our release timeline. We are in... a bit of a hold-off with some of our artists."
Pidaco frowned, snatching the pad. "Why is that? We have the slots booked."
"Usually," Kex stammered, "Nazir would have already given us several songs to use for those artists. Without his output... the pipeline is dry."
Pidaco slammed the pad onto his desk. "Get the other writers then! We have a dozen on payroll!"
Kex flinched. "That's the problem, sir. The artists... they are rejecting the songs from the other writers. They say they aren't 'fit' for them. They say the melodies lack the... the 'usual touch.'"
"Goddamn it!" Pidaco roared, sweeping a crystal decanter off his desk. It shattered against the wall. "Fucking wet rat! Even when he's gone, he haunts me!"
He glared at the screen, where the video of Nazir serenading a park crowd played on a loop. The singer looked joyful. Free.
Pidaco's eyes went cold. "Let's push our plan forward. Now."
"Sir," Kex said, wringing his hands. "The media needs more of a hook. We are already in talks with some outlets, but most of them say the story is too obscure to publish. No one cares about the small success of a 'scandalous' artist on Stellarcast. They need a bigger target."
Pidaco tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking.
Just then, Kex's wristband chimed with a priority notification. A holographic image popped up. It was from the private investigator they had sent to tail Nazir.
Kex's eyes widened. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. "Sir... I think we just got our hook."
"What is it?"
Kex tapped a button, projecting two high-resolution photos into the air.
The first photo showed a masked man, unmistakably Percival entering a discreet, high-end rental studio in downtown Sela.
The second photo, taken fifty minutes later, showed Nazir Kal entering the exact same building, looking nervous.
Pidaco stared at the images. The pieces clicked into place. The independent anomaly and the blacklisted traitor.
"To bring down both Percival and Nazir in one stroke..." Pidaco whispered, his voice trembling with malicious delight. "The universe has helped me big time."
…
Nazir Kal leaned forward, his voice steady but laced with the ghost of his younger, hungrier self.
"I was young back then," Nazir began, staring at the polished surface of the composer's desk. "Too young, too eager. It's the two-ingredient cocktail record labels love the most. It tastes like compliance."
He glanced at Ratik. Her expression had shifted from icy interrogation to a neutral, almost grim understanding. She knew the taste of that cocktail. She had seen it served a hundred times.
"I was put with this coach as a trainee," Nazir continued, his hands clasping together. "It feels so long ago that I forget the catalyst, but I ended up offending one of the manager's sons. The coach... he started to 'correct' my technique. He told me to sing in a way that put a constant, grinding strain on my vocal cords. But I was a pushover. I just followed what they said."
Nazir let out a bitter chuckle. "Then they told me my tenor voice was 'obnoxious.' That was the first time I actually spoke up. I knew my voice. I told them, 'I write my songs in high notes because I sing at those notes.' The coach felt disrespected. He snatched my song sheet right out of my hand and gave it to a fellow trainee, a boy who also had a tenor voice."
Nazir looked up, meeting Dorian's eyes. "And I have to admit... his voice was better than mine."
Dorian studied the man across from him. He thought back to the recording in the café, the raw, unfiltered talent. Nazir was right. His story was pathetic. But it was the kind of pathetic that made you angry at the world, not the person.
"The situation got worse," Nazir went on. "By the end of the trainee period, I was ranked the worst artist in the assessment because I was forcing a baritone range that wasn't mine. I was desperate. I told them I had written songs for tenors. The other execs were ready to kick me out, rejecting my proposal to redo the assessment."
Nazir paused, a complicated expression crossing his face. "But the CEO... Pidaco... he supported me. He said, 'Let's see what you've got.' I put my all into it. And somehow, I got a five-year contract."
He smiled pitifully. "I was foolish. I signed it without question. The first thing they did was give my song to that fellow trainee for his debut. They said it was a queue system, that every artist has to wait their turn. But then Pidaco told me the other execs were pushing me down the list. He played the benevolent mentor. He said, 'I want to help you, Nazir, but you need to show your worth to the board. Write songs for the label. Prove your value.'"
Nazir shook his head slowly. "So I did. More and more of my fellow artists, my year-mates started to debut with my songs. Then my juniors took their turn. It seemed my turn never came. And I woke up too late to realize that I had already been leeched dry for ten years of my life."
He reached into his pocket and placed a small holographic orb on the desk. He tapped it, and a stream of documents and audio files projected into the air, evidence of the last year of his songwriting process.
"I guess the assessment is right," Nazir said softly. "I stopped making songs after I signed the second extension. I stopped making songs for myself."
He looked at Dorian, his eyes clear for the first time. "But I'm free now."
The room was silent for a long moment.
"Pathetic," Dorian said.
Nazir flinched slightly, his shoulders slumping. He sighed with a tired smile. "True. My story is a pathetic one."
"The CEO," Dorian continued, his voice hardening. "The coach. All your fellow artists who took your voice and called it their own. All of them are pathetic."
Nazir raised his head, startled by the venom in the young composer's tone.
"My father always told me," Dorian said, standing up, "don't fight back… Fight forward."
He walked around the desk and extended his hand.
"Let's collab and fight forward, Nazir. Let our song fight the way they do… by being undeniable."
Nazir stared at the hand. It wasn't a hand of pity. It was an invitation to a war he thought he had already lost.
A slow, genuine smile broke through the tiredness on his face. He stood up and gripped Dorian's hand firmly. "Let's fight forward."
From the sofa, a sigh broke the moment.
"I am Ratik Courtie," the woman said, her voice still sharp, but lacking the earlier edge.
Nazir looked at her.
"If you are going to work with Percival," she said, smoothing her skirt, "you need to know who cleans up the messes."
…
Several days later, the pristine, Art Nouveau walkways of Astra Nova Academy were filled with the cheerful chatter of students. Among them, Mala and Maree Brimen walked arm-in-arm, the spring sunlight catching the intricate embroidery of their uniforms. They both had earbuds in, synchronized to the same frequency, their heads bobbing slightly to the melancholic rhythm of Percival's "Lovely."
Walking beside them, Narissa and Orra exchanged a long, suffering sigh.
"Unbelievable," Narissa muttered, shaking her head. "He doesn't even have an album under his belt yet. Are you two seriously not bored listening to his four songs over and over again?"
Mala pulled one earbud out, a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. "You don't understand, Narissa. Percival's life must have been so difficult. I bet you all of this sad feeling in his songs just pours out of him without any intention. It's not manufactured."
"Exactly," Maree chimed in, clutching her chest dramatically. "Unlike those other fake, knock-off sad songs trying to emulate him. His pain is real. If only I were in his life... I could save him. I would let him sleep in my room so he wouldn't be lonely."
Orra raised an eyebrow. "Your mansion has forty-five guest suites, Maree. Why make him sleep in yours?"
Mala and Maree just giggled, a synchronized sound of pure, unashamed delusion.
Narissa shook her head again. "You two are hopeless."
Just then, her heliopad chimed with a sharp notification tone. It wasn't a text; it was a "Hot News" alert from the Stellarcast gossip network.
[HOT NEWS]
Narissa glanced at the screen. Her eyes went wide. The headline screamed in bold, aggressive red letters.
RISING STAR OR FALLING COMET? PERCIVAL CAUGHT IN SCANDAL!
She tapped the link. The article was a masterclass in sensationalism.
"Is the masked maestro hiding a dark secret? Exclusive photos show the reclusive 'Star Maker' engaging in secret meetings with scandalous artist Nazir Kal! Sources say the two were seen entering a private studio in Sela's Red District."
"Insiders claim Percival has been funding Kal's 'extracurricular' habits. Is the tear-jerking emotion in his songs actually the result of illicit substances? Has the clean-cut genius fallen into the trap of addiction and illegal trade?"
The article was accompanied by the telephoto images of Percival and Nazir entering the same building, juxtaposed with old, out-of-context photos of Nazir looking disheveled.
"Oh no," Narissa whispered. She stopped walking and grabbed Mala's arm. "I think you need to see this."
She turned the screen toward the twins.
Mala and Maree looked at the headline. They looked at the photos. They looked at the accusations of drug addiction and illegal dealings.
For a second, there was silence.
Then, in perfect unison, they screamed.
"WHAAAAT?!"
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
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**A/N**