She belongs to the world.
Her face dominates the arrival halls of international airports. Towering digital billboards loop her perfume campaign above crowded intersections. Luxury brands compete for her endorsement. Music charts bend around her releases.
In Paris, she is elegance.
In Milan, she is power.
In Tokyo, she is discipline.
Tokyo — 2:17 a.m.
The city glows like it never sleeps.
Maya stands on the balcony of her hotel suite, robe wrapped around her slender frame, phone in hand.
The streets below shimmer with neon. People move in small clusters. Laughter drifts faintly upward.
She should be sleeping.
Her schedule tomorrow begins at five.
But her mind is not quiet.
She opens her messages again.
Hikari.
No new notifications.
She scrolls upward.
“It’s okay.”
“Never give up on your job.”
“I know.”
Why does he always respond like that?
No complaints.
No arguments.
No demands.
Sometimes she wishes he would fight back.
Because if he fought—
At least she would know he still cared enough to struggle.
Instead, he just… accepts.
And that acceptance feels heavier than anger.
She locks the phone.
“I’m doing this for our future,” she whispers to the empty air.
But the words feel rehearsed.
Like something she says to convince herself.
—
Back home, the hidden room hums softly as the stage lights warm up.
Dust particles float in the air.
Hikari stands in the center.
Mask in hand.
He stares at it for a long time.
The last time he wore it—
The world had screamed his name.
Or rather—
The name they gave him.
The God of Idol.
He lifts it slowly and places it over his face.
The fit is exact.
Like time never moved.
He steps under the spotlight.
For a moment, his body remembers before his mind does.
Posture straightens.
Breathing steadies.
Presence sharpens.
The weakness disappears.
The cough disappears.
The doubt disappears.
Music fills the room — an old instrumental track from his final global tour.
His body moves.
Sharp.
Precise.
Controlled.
Even after twenty-five years, instinct guides him.
But halfway through a turn—
Pain strikes.
His vision blurs.
He stumbles.
The music continues, but he drops to one knee, gripping his chest.
The mask hides his expression.
But beneath it, his breathing is uneven.
Blood drips onto the floor.
The spotlight still shines.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
He laughs weakly beneath the mask.
“So this is how it ends?”
A god, defeated by his own body.
—
The next morning, headlines begin circulating online.
Not about Maya.
Not yet.
But about something older.
A verified music historian account posts:
“Confidential sources suggest the original master recordings of the God of Idol have been re-licensed. Industry insiders whisper about something bigger. A tribute stage? Or… a return?”
Within hours, fan forums explode.
Speculation spreads.
Clips of old performances resurface.
Younger idols react live on stream.
“He was unreal.”
“No one dominated like him.”
Even international fans trend the hashtag:
#GodOfIdolReturn
—
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
In Tokyo, Maya sits in makeup as stylists work around her.
A junior assistant gasps softly while scrolling her tablet.
“Oh my god… have you seen this?”
Maya doesn’t respond at first.
She’s reviewing choreography notes.
The assistant hesitates, then turns the screen slightly.
“About the God of Idol.”
That name catches her attention instantly.
Her eyes lift.
“What about him?”
“They’re saying he might come back.”
Maya’s expression changes subtly.
“After twenty-five years?” she murmurs.
She takes the tablet.
Watches a clip.
The old stage.
The iconic mask.
The overwhelming aura.
Even through a screen, the presence is undeniable.
Her stylist laughs lightly.
“If he came back now, he’d steal every headline from all of you.”
Maya doesn’t laugh.
She keeps watching.
Something about that presence…
It’s familiar.
No.
That’s impossible.
She hands the tablet back.
“Legends don’t return,” she says calmly.
“They stay legends because they disappear.”
But the words feel hollow.
—
Back home, Hikari removes the mask slowly.
His breathing is steadier now.
But the blood on the floor remains.
He cleans it quietly.
Methodically.
Like he’s erasing evidence of weakness.
He checks his phone.
Trending notifications flood in.
#GodOfIdolReturn
His eyes narrow slightly.
So it begins.
He never announced anything.
He never confirmed.
But the industry always senses movement.
He scrolls further.
A clip appears—
Maya in an old interview.
“If the God of Idol ever returned… I’d want to perform with him at least once.”
He pauses the video.
Studies her expression.
Admiration.
Respect.
Almost reverence.
He lowers the phone slowly.
“You admire the legend,” he whispers.
“But you don’t see the man.”
—
Later that evening, Maya finally texts him.
“Long day.”
He replies almost instantly.
“How was Tokyo?”
“Busy. Fans are crazy as usual.”
A pause.
Then she types again.
“Did you see the news?”
He knows what she means.
“Yes.”
Her typing appears quickly.
“If he actually comes back… it would change everything.”
He stares at the screen.
“Would you want that?” he types.
Her reply comes without hesitation.
“Of course. The industry needs someone like him again.”
He reads it twice.
The industry needs him.
But does she?
Another message appears.
“You’re quiet.”
He responds.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitates.
Then types something safe.
“About how you’d probably forget me if you ever met him.”
Three dots appear.
Then disappear.
Then appear again.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
Dramatic.
He almost laughs.
“I’m joking,” he types instead.
She sends a simple reply.
“Sleep. You sound tired.”
He doesn’t tell her about the blood.
He doesn’t tell her about the rehearsal.
He doesn’t tell her about the weakness creeping through his bones.
Instead—
“I will. Good luck tomorrow.”
She sends a heart emoji.
Small.
Digital.
Safe.
—
After the call ends, Maya stares at the ceiling of her hotel room.
Why did his joke bother her?
Forget him?
Impossible.
And yet—
She has already forgotten dinner.
Forgotten the cake.
Forgotten the anniversary.
Her chest tightens slightly.
For the first time, doubt creeps in.
Not about her career.
But about balance.
—
In the hidden room, Hikari stands alone again.
He stares at the mask resting on the table.
Outside, the world is already whispering about his return.
Inside, his body is counting down.
If he returns—
He disrupts everything.
Her image.
Her schedule.
Her stability.
If he stays hidden—
He fades quietly.
And Maya will continue chasing a legend—
While the man beside her disappears.
He turns off the spotlight.
Darkness swallows the room.
“The harsh reality behind her spotlight…”
His voice echoes softly.
“…is that she doesn’t realize it’s already fading.”
In New York, she is desire.
To the public, she is flawless.
To Hikari—
She is distant.
—
The studio in Seoul hums with controlled chaos.
Assistants move quickly. Stylists hover. The air smells of hairspray and heated lights. A dozen people orbit around Maya like she is gravity itself.
“Chin up a little.”
“Eyes softer.”
“Perfect. Hold that.”
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Maya doesn’t blink.
Her expression shifts on command — confident, untouchable, magnetic. She has mastered the art of becoming whatever the lens demands.
Her phone vibrates in her palm between shots.
She glances down.
Hikari.
Her jaw tightens — just slightly.
“Two minutes,” the photographer calls.
She steps aside and answers.
“What do you want? Just say it already before I hang up.”
Her tone is sharp. Controlled. Not loud — but edged.
On the other end, Hikari’s voice is steady.
“It’s our anniversary today.”
For a fraction of a second, her gaze drops.
The stylist approaches to fix her hair. Maya nods absentmindedly.
“I know.”
Her voice cools.
“I won’t forget. But don’t expect me to change my attitude. You know how it is.”
Silence from him.
That silence makes her defensive.
“I’m working.”
“I know,” he replies.
Something about how easily he says it irritates her more than if he had argued.
She ends the call.
“Ready, Maya!”
And just like that—
She smiles.
Radiant.
Unbreakable.
Professional.
No one in the room knows she just pushed away the one person who waits for her without contracts or cameras.
—
Hikari stares at his phone long after the line goes dead.
The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
On the dining table sits a small cake he bought earlier that morning. Nothing extravagant. Just simple white frosting and two thin candles.
He hadn’t expected a grand celebration.
Just dinner.
Just presence.
He rubs the back of his neck and exhales slowly.
“She’s busy.”
He says it like a mantra.
She’s busy.
She’s building an empire.
He knew what he signed up for.
Still—
The house feels colder.
—
Later that evening, Maya finally sits alone in her private dressing room.
The makeup is half removed. The lights are dimmer here.
Her phone lights up again.
Manager:
Japan shoot tomorrow 6AM.
Milan runway added after.
Schedule extended two weeks.
Her shoulders stiffen.
Two weeks.
Which means—
The anniversary is gone.
She opens her chat with Hikari.
“I have a shoot in Japan tomorrow.”
She stares at the typing indicator.
His reply comes quickly.
“It’s okay.”
Two words.
No complaint.
No guilt.
No pressure.
Her chest tightens unexpectedly.
She types again.
“I’ll make it up to you when I get back. This job comes first.”
She adds a confident smile emoji.
Professional.
Composed.
He replies:
“Never give up on your job.”
Her fingers hover above the screen.
Why does he always support her like that?
“I won’t. Just don’t expect me to stop working because I’m home. I have to keep my image intact.”
She attaches a photo from the shoot.
Sharp gaze.
Perfect lighting.
Controlled power.
Public Maya.
His reply:
“I know.”
She locks the phone.
Why does that feel worse than anger?
—
Before boarding, she sends another message.
“I’ll text you when I land. And Hikari… be careful with Daniela. She’s getting too close lately.”
Daniela — a rising model. Young. Friendly. Photogenic. Social media loves pairing them in behind-the-scenes clips.
His response is almost immediate.
“That rat? You want me careful of that rat girl?”
Maya rolls her eyes slightly.
“She’s not just any rat. She’s a potential threat to our image. You know how fans are.”
Hikari goes offline.
She watches the screen for a few seconds.
Then slides the phone into her bag.
“He understands,” she whispers.
But a quiet doubt lingers.
Does he?
Or does he just endure?
—
Back at home, Hikari leans back into the couch.
The cake remains untouched.
He glances at the clock.
Midnight.
He laughs softly under his breath.
“Happy anniversary.”
A cough interrupts him.
Then another.
This one harsher.
He covers his mouth instinctively.
When he pulls his hand away—
Red.
Blood.
He stares at it calmly.
No panic.
Just a slow inhale.
This isn’t new.
It’s just getting worse.
He stands slowly and walks to the kitchen sink, rinsing the stain away.
He hasn’t told her.
He won’t.
Not when she’s standing under international spotlights.
Not when brands rely on her image of perfection.
Illness is messy.
Scandalous.
Weak.
And weakness spreads.
He refuses to be the crack in her glass image.
—
He walks down the hallway to a place Maya has never questioned.
A framed picture on the wall.
Ordinary.
Forgettable.
He rotates it slightly.
Click.
A hidden mechanism unlocks.
A narrow door opens in the wall.
He steps inside.
The room beyond is dim but immaculate.
Stage lights mounted on the ceiling.
Old awards lined carefully.
Newspaper headlines framed in black.
“THE GOD OF IDOL CONQUERS EUROPE.”
“MASKED LEGEND LEAVES INDUSTRY — NO EXPLANATION.”
“IS HE HUMAN?”
Twenty-five years ago—
He was everything.
No face revealed.
Always masked.
Performances that blurred the line between human and myth.
Idols studied him.
Fans worshipped him.
Competitors feared him.
Then one night—
He vanished.
No farewell concert.
No statement.
Just absence.
And absence made him eternal.
Even today, tribute stages replay his performances.
Even today, young idols try to imitate his style.
Even today—
Maya admires him.
She once said during an interview:
“If the God of Idol ever returned, I’d want to stand on stage with him at least once.”
She had said it with admiration.
With awe.
She never knew she was already sharing a home with him.
—
Hikari stands before a glass case.
Inside—
The costume.
Black.
Sleek.
Timeless.
And the mask.
White.
Expressionless.
Iconic.
He coughs again.
Harder.
Blood stains the floor beside him.
He grips the edge of the glass.
His reflection stares back at him.
Paler now.
Thinner.
Time has touched him.
“The harsh reality behind her spotlight…”
His voice is low.
“…is that she’s chasing a legend…”
He unlocks the case.
“…without knowing she’s leaving the man behind.”
He lifts the mask slowly.
It feels heavier than he remembers.
Or maybe he’s just weaker now.
—
Far across the world, in a luxury hotel in Tokyo, Maya scrolls through an old performance video.
The God of Idol stands alone under a single spotlight.
No backup dancers.
No flashy effects.
Just presence.
Dominant.
Commanding.
Untouchable.
Her eyes soften.
“He was never afraid of losing anything,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t realize—
The man coughing blood in a hidden room once ruled that very stage.
And now stands alone—
Second to her spotlight.