"Sign here."
The voice was low, masculine, and measured — the kind that didn't ask, but told. It echoed faintly through the dressing room, softened by the walls padded with garments and acoustic drapes. This was no ordinary space. It was a backstage sanctuary carved into the skeleton of the massive concert venue, tucked between steel scaffolding and thick electrical cables. A glowing makeup mirror hummed gently in the corner, surrounded by vanity lights casting a warm glow over the clutter: scattered makeup palettes, half-drunk electrolyte bottles, racks of designer clothing — stage outfits in sequins, silk, and leather, still carrying the sweat of performance.
The air smelled of fabric softener, cologne, and hairspray — the scent of showbiz mid-performance. A worn armchair stood in the corner beside a mini-fridge, and a pair of gold sneakers sat on a shelf like trophies. One of them, scuffed at the toe, looked like it had danced through a thousand cities.
Elena stood there, tense, half-shadowed under one of the overhanging lights. Her stomach fluttered, but not with joy. She was in his dressing room. Ethan's. Her favorite artist in the world. She had seen him perform minutes ago. She had screamed the lyrics, jumped in time with the lights, watched him sprint down the runway stage with sweat glistening on his collarbones. She had even seen his sister and her friend backstage — and they had been so nice.
Now here she was, on the brink of a dream — a million dollars. One million. Her mother, Brittany, sat poised at a table, pen hovering, eyes wide with disbelief and anticipation. She was seconds away from signing the paperwork that would change their lives.
So why did it feel so wrong?
The heaviness in Elena's chest wasn't from nerves. It was them. The ones who brought her here. Just minutes ago, one of Ethan's supposed assistants — a clean-cut man with an easy smile — had approached her as the show was ending. He'd guided her to the VIP area, made sure she and her mother got a great view for the finale. He'd even introduced her to Ethan's inner circle, Ethan's sister and her friend, who welcomed her like she belonged.
Then came the twist: "It's about the winnings," the assistant had said, ushering her through a restricted hallway toward this private room. "Ethan will be here soon," he'd promised. That sealed it. She followed.
Elena had entered the room in awe, eyes wide like a child in a castle. She was still smiling now, her fingers brushing a hanging shirt on one of the racks.
"He wore this one during his first tour," Emily had told her. "And this shoe — the one with the gold trim — it's from that video we watched last week. The rooftop one."
Her mother had gasped softly, brushing her fingers over the sequined fabric like it was sacred.
Then, the door creaked.
Elena had turned with a grin that nearly split her face, hope blooming across her cheeks. For a second, they both thought it was Ethan.
It wasn't.
Instead, a tall man stepped in, dressed in a charcoal suit so perfectly tailored it looked sculpted. Behind him came two others — similarly dressed, equally unreadable. The leader introduced himself as Jack. Said he worked with the label. Said he was here to handle the logistics of the prize.
And just like that, the room changed.
Elena was still happy. Still thrilled. The idea of one million dollars was dizzying, and to her — a single mother who had scraped for everything — it felt like fate. Like finally, they were being seen.
But then…
480,000 dollars.
That's what it became.
From one million — to that.
And all it took was a few... conversations.
"We'll need to calculate the taxes and all applicable deductions."
The words had slid from Jack's mouth like cold oil—smooth, precise, emotionless.
Elena hadn't understood everything. The man spoke with a calm authority that twisted her gut, even though his words sounded official and polite. The room—Ethan's dressing room—was dimly lit, filled with the warm smell of fabric and the faint trace of expensive cologne. A full-length mirror stood in the corner, still glowing with the reflection of concert lights from earlier, and racks of designer clothes lined the walls—some flamboyant, others sleek and dark. One blazer still had a label tagged "New york Showcase '22" hanging from it. Shoes of all kinds rested on the floor in careful disorder, like ghosts of past performances.
This was the room of someone larger than life, someone she adored. Yet in this moment, it felt like a trap.
Jack, in his tailored charcoal-gray suit, had stepped into the room like a machine disguised as a man. He was flanked by two other suited men who remained silent—unmoving shadows. His words had taken the dream and slowly begun to strangle it.
"One million dollars," Jack had repeated earlier, flipping through a pristine white folder thick with papers, "is the gross prize sum. Before disbursement, we're required by law—and label policy—to withhold taxes, legal compliance costs, management deductions, and a few other line items. Standard industry procedure."
And then, just like that, the numbers had started to shrink.
Elena could hardly breathe as the room started spinning with terms she didn't fully understand. Withholding tax. Processing fees. Legal retainers. Management percentages. Every phrase was like a little knife, carving away at the money they'd thought they'd won.
A million dollars became eight hundred thousand.
Then six hundred and fifty.
Then five hundred and twenty.
And finally—four hundred and eighty thousand.
Her mother's hand had twitched slightly around the pen. The contract sat in front of her like a snake, coiled in clean legalese.
"Ethan's assistant… Dough, right?" Elena had turned to the man standing a few feet behind them. Dough had brought them here. He was the one who had said Ethan would be coming, that this was about the prize money. He was the one who had smiled when Elena spoke about how this was the best day of her life.
Dough stepped forward, nervous. "Uh, maybe we should—"
Jack didn't even look at him. His voice cut through the air like a blade. "This is a matter for the label. Standard business procedure. It's above your purview, Dough. Please."
The dismissal was quiet but firm. Like someone swatting away a fly with a velvet glove.
Dough fell silent, mouth still slightly open, shoulders raised like he was still considering whether he should say more—but he didn't. He just stepped back.
Jack turned to Elena's mother, his expression unreadable.
"So ma'am," he said, "please sign here. And kindly fill in your account details for payment processing."
Elena stood frozen. Her chest was tight.
"But… but it's supposed to be one million," she finally blurted, her voice sharp, high-pitched, trembling with a desperate kind of rage. "That's what they said. That's what Ethan said. One million!"
Jack turned to her.
This time, his voice changed. Not softer, exactly—but measured. A practiced calm.
"The prize is one million dollars. That's true," he said. "But that's before applicable deductions. Think of it like the lottery. You don't take home the full amount. Government takes a cut. Managers take their cut. It's the system. You've seen it a thousand times."
He smiled thinly, but it wasn't warmth—it was policy.
"This is how it works."
Elena blinked. She felt like she'd just been slapped with a textbook.
Beside her, her mother turned, placing a gentle hand on Elena's arm.
"Elena… stop," she whispered. "It's still four hundred and eighty thousand. That's a lot of money. We should be thankful. Don't be greedy."
"But it's not about that!" Elena cried. Her eyes were wet now. "Mom, that's not the point. Ethan said one million! We should just wait for him—this doesn't feel right. I don't trust these guys, I—"
A man from behind Jack stepped forward slightly, speaking with a smirk.
"This is the CFO of the label," he said, motioning to Jack. "He's Ethan's boss. Ethan's busy right now."
Another chimed in, tone almost sarcastic. "We're actually doing you a favor, making sure the taxes are handled. You think the IRS would be this nice about it?"
Elena's breath hitched. She didn't know what to say anymore. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly.
Her mother gave a nervous laugh, clearly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry about my daughter. She's just emotional." She turned to Jack. "Where should I sign?"
Jack gave a single approving nod, sliding the document forward.
"I'm glad you've been able to understand," he said. "Now, if you'll please sign here."
Elena tried one last time to speak. "Mom—"
But her mother gave her a warning glance. "Elena. Stop."
The pen hovered just above the signature line.
And then—
"Wait."
The voice was firm. Sharp. Feminine.
Everyone turned.
Jack, whose hand was already inching toward the papers to finalize the process, slowly turned his head toward the doorway—and his eyes widened.
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"…It's you."
Standing there, with a small frown pressed on her stunning face, was the last person Jack expected.
The girl he had thought of earlier.
The one who had stuck in his mind longer than she should have.
The one he had decided wasn't worth the trouble—cause he found out who she was.
Ethan Jones' little sister.
Precious Jones stepped into the room like she had every right to be there—because in her mind, she did.
Trailing behind her nervously was her friend, a petite girl with oversized glasses clutching her phone like a lifeline. "Maybe we shouldn't—" the friend whispered, tugging lightly at Precious's sleeve. "This looks serious—"
But Precious didn't even slow down.
"I'm sorry for eavesdropping," she said clearly, her voice cutting through the stale tension like a knife. "I was coming to meet Dough, but I heard what was going on… and I really don't like this whole situation."
Her tone was sharp but calm, and her eyes moved over everyone in the room with a maturity that didn't match her youth. She looked first to Elena, then to her mother, and finally to Jack—who, for a half-second, forgot the script he'd been rehearsing in his head.
Jack blinked once. Then twice. Don't lose focus, he reminded himself, forcing a cool, business-like smile as he turned back to her.
"Don't worry about it, Miss Jones. We were just wrapping this all up," he said with a rehearsed calm. He gave the mother a reassuring nod. "Now, ma'am, if you'd just—"
But before he could finish, Precious took a step forward and raised her hand slightly, like a student about to correct a teacher mid-lesson.
"No, I have to say this first," she said. "I know you're trying to make it sound normal, but this doesn't feel right. You say taxes have to be taken out, fine—but how they're being taken out matters. Massively."
Jack exhaled through his nose, masking the rising annoyance beneath his skin.
Precious continued, her tone shifting into something technical. "This is Massachusetts. Under both federal and state laws, yes, there's tax—but there are exemptions, deductions, even adjustments based on how the money is claimed. There's no reason the net should drop straight from $1 million to $480,000 unless you're applying the harshest possible brackets without optimization. You're just slashing it, no strategy. That's not standard—"
Jack blinked, stunned. "Pardon?"
"I'm a business major at Harvard," she added, lifting her chin, "and even if they can't get the full million, there are ways to increase their take-home. Through proper structuring. Through channeling. You know this."
Jack's jaw clenched slightly. The room was silent. Even Dough, who had been nervously fidgeting near the back wall, suddenly looked up like someone had dropped a thunderclap into the center of the room.
Jack finally exhaled, schooling his face into something polite, even if his mind was racing.
"Miss," he began smoothly, "I'm sorry, but this really doesn't concern you. This is between the label and the winner. Your brother—"
"It does concern her," Elena cut in sharply. She was sitting forward now, her eyes wide and full of sudden, renewed hope. "Wait—what she's saying... Is it true? That the money can be increased?"
Jack tilted his head slightly, then sighed. His inner lawyer kicked in.
"Listen," he said carefully, "your friend makes some good points, but what she's suggesting isn't practical here. There are time constraints. This payment is tied to the original agreement, not a new restructuring. If you try to refile or relocate claim status or change states, you'd have to delay the payment, probably six to eight months. That's assuming the IRS even accepts the reclassification. Ma'am, we are a world-renowned financial department. We've done this hundreds of times. The numbers we presented? They're the most realistic you can get."
The mother smiled awkwardly and gave a small nod. "No problem, sir," she said softly. "Let me just go ahead and sign—"
But just as her pen hovered above the line, a new voice came, firm and commanding:
"Wait."
Jack's entire posture slumped. He wiped a hand slowly over his face like a man in a sitcom who had just been told the elevator broke again.
Who again now?
The room turned to the door.
Standing there were two people—but the one in front, tall and stone-faced, was unmistakable.
Ethan Jones had arrived. And he didn't look happy.
A few minutes later, the whole situation had descended into absolute chaos. Voices ricocheted off the high marble walls like bullets in a war zone. Security was lingering near the edges, unsure if this was a finance meeting or an improv theater showcase. Shouts were flying. People were talking over one another. Papers were in the air. Someone had dropped a latte.
At the center of it all stood Ethan Jones—jaw clenched, chest rising and falling, visibly seething.
The man looked like someone had just sold his kidneys on Craigslist.
He was pissed.
He had spent the last five minutes arguing like a man possessed—questioning legal structures, corporate greed, and even the moral compass of the entertainment industry. His voice was raw, his curls messy from stress, and his hand motions more dramatic than a telenovela actor.
But amid the chaos, there was one man—one single man—who stood eerily calm, like a monk meditating in the middle of a riot.
Jack.
Yes, Jack.
And not in a cool "I've got this under control" way. More like a broken man staring into the abyss of his own sanity.
What is even happening? What kind of third-rate Chinese translation arc is this?
Is this an illegal webnovel? Did I fall into a Wattpad story?
The fuck is going on??
Jack blinked slowly, mentally resetting like an old Windows laptop.
He looked around him, taking in the scene like a detective walking into a crime scene with no body but fifty suspects. There was Ethan, mid-argument, a vein dancing on his temple. Behind him stood Elena and her mother, both hovering like backup dancers who didn't know the choreography. Jack squinted at the whole formation.
He has to be the MC, he thought flatly. This is giving 'Main Character Syndrome' to a dangerous level.
Then his gaze shifted to Ethan's sister—Precious—who had materialized out of nowhere like a side character breaking canon.
Why is she here? Why is she talking? Who even wrote her in?
And then—oh, then—there were the men. Two random dudes who had somehow appeared like DLC characters unlocked mid-scene. Jack didn't know who they were, where they came from, or why they were here. All he knew was the second he had told the CEO, "Don't worry, I'll sort it out," they had floated into existence like bad plot twists.
And now?
Now they were shouting.
"Who are you to talk about the boss like that?" one barked, puffing his chest.
"Yeah, know your place!" the other added, like some second-rate anime lackey whose voice cracked mid-line.
Jack turned to them slowly.
Yeah, I'm the fucking villain now why is it me when it should be the fucking IRS, he thought dryly. Apparently this is a cultivation drama, and I'm the evil finance sect leader.
He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man suffering psychic damage.
"That's enough," Jack finally said, voice sharp, slicing through the madness like a katana through wet tofu.
Everyone turned.
He walked forward, his usual charming smile long gone, replaced with corporate exhaustion.
"Ethan," he began calmly, too calmly, like someone who had been holding back a nuclear scream for thirty minutes. "Listen. I'm still trying to wrap my head around this whole circus. But let me say this clearly. No one is scamming anybody. This is standard procedure. This is how the money flow works. We're not hiding anything under the rug."
He gestured toward the document.
"The label is covering the initial one million you wanted to give. But if you want the full sum to go to the recipient after all the tax deductions, government cuts, state penalties, and whatnot... You're going to need to top it off. Roughly $750,000 more, give or take."
Jack gave Precious a pointed side-glance—the kind of look that said thank you for the tax TED Talk but please log off the simulation now.
Then, without missing a beat, he turned around, muttering:
"I'm out of here. I'm losing brain cells just breathing in this storyline."
And just like that, Jack exited the scene like a man escaping a badly written Netflix series.
It was... magical.
And so, Jack—unsung hero of sanity—had officially broken free from the author's attempt to cook up a classic Chinese webnovel arc. Ethan, after a long breath and a few quiet calculations, had calmly agreed to cover the remaining $750,000 himself.
The madness died down after that.
Photos were taken. Videos were filmed. Ethan posed with Elena and her mom like it was the happiest day of their lives, because for them, it was. He even shared a long, warm conversation with his sister Precious, both of them laughing about the absurdity of it all. He told Dough to drop her and her friend back, and with a nod, they all disappeared into the bustling energy of the arena.
Finally, Ethan returned to the VVIP room, where the real discussions resumed—the 500 million dollar concert event they had flown in to finalize.