Adrien Cho-Camille turned twenty-four at exactly midnight.
There were no candles. No messy surprises. No late-night laughter spilling into the hallway. His birthday arrived the way everything else in his life did—quiet, scheduled, polished clean of spontaneity.
He woke up early anyway.
Habit.
The morning light filtered into his room, pale and controlled, touching the awards lined neatly on the shelves. Medals. Certificates. Framed photographs of performances and competitions. Proof that he existed exactly as he was expected to.
His phone buzzed.
Messages flooded in—classmates, teammates, celebrity friends, people with blue checkmarks and perfect smiles.
>Happy birthday!
>24 looks good on you!
>Dinner tonight? We're planning something nice.
Adrien stared at the screen, then locked it without replying.
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
What he wanted—what he'd been wanting for months now—was something embarrassingly simple.
Space.
Breakfast was elaborate. Of course it was.
The table was filled with food he barely touched. His parents sat across from him, immaculate as ever, dressed like they were heading to a board meeting instead of celebrating their son's birthday.
"Happy birthday, Adrien," his mother said, smiling as she passed him tea.
"Thank you," he replied.
There was a pause. A familiar one. Adrien inhaled quietly.
"I wanted to ask," he said, voice careful, practiced, "about the apartment."
His father's gaze lifted immediately.
Adrien continued before he lost his nerve. "You said—before the semester starts—you'd help me find a place closer to campus. A separate apartment. For convenience."
The words for convenience were important. They always were.
His mother set her cup down slowly.
"We already told you," she said, tone light but sharp at the edges, "we're looking into a penthouse. Something suitable."
Adrien nodded. "Yes. I know. I just—since school is starting soon, I wanted to know when—"
"When," his father interrupted, "did this become about urgency?"
Adrien froze.
Lucien Camille leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You live ten minutes away from campus. Your schedule is managed perfectly from here."
"It's not that," Adrien said quickly. "I just thought—having my own space might help me focus. Be more independent."
The word independent landed wrong.
His mother's smile thinned. "Independent from what, exactly?"
Adrien swallowed. "From… commuting. From distractions."
"Distractions?" Lucien echoed. "Or supervision?"
Adrien's heart dropped.
"You've been distant lately," Sophie said softly, which somehow hurt more. "We barely see you anymore."
Because you plan every second of my life, he thought.
Instead, he said nothing.
Lucien's voice hardened. "You're looking for excuses. To stay out late. To separate yourself. And for what? So you can make mistakes without us correcting them?"
"That's not—"
"You're twenty-four," Lucien continued. "Not a child, but not foolish enough to think freedom means absence. Every successful man understands structure."
Adrien's hands clenched under the table.
"And what worries me," Sophie added, "is that this sudden desire for distance coincides with… new influences."
Adrien felt his pulse spike.
"Nothing is happening," he said automatically.
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "See that it stays that way."
The conversation ended there.
No apology.
No compromise.
No birthday wish beyond expectation.
Adrien pushed his chair back, stood. "I have plans tonight."
"Of course you do," his mother said. "Your friends."
He nodded, grabbed his coat, and left without another word.
The rooftop restaurant glittered with light and music.
Adrien stood among people who looked like they belonged on magazine covers—actors, athletes, influencers. Glasses clinked. Cameras flashed. Someone pressed a drink into his hand.
"Birthday boy!" someone laughed.
Adrien smiled on cue.
They talked about projects, about fame, about everything shallow and loud enough to drown out thought. He laughed when he was supposed to. Posed when asked.
But his mind kept drifting—back to the breakfast table. Back to words like supervision and structure.
Back to the suffocating truth that even promises came with strings.
Zane Calloway woke up sore.
The good kind.
His muscles protested as he rolled out of bed, joints stiff from the day before. He stretched, cracked his neck, and headed into the kitchen where his mom was already awake, tying her hair back for work.
"Big day?" she asked.
"Always," Zane said, grabbing cereal. "Competition's in two weeks."
She hummed, watching him with quiet concern. "You've been pushing hard."
"Gotta," he replied. "Still need a sponsor."
That earned him a look.
They sat at the small kitchen table, the kind that wobbled if you leaned too hard on one side. Zane spun his spoon absently.
"I've sent out applications," he said. "Brands. Companies. Management firms."
"And?"
"Some interest. Mostly silence."
His mom reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "You'll get there."
Zane hesitated. "I applied to Camille Group too."
Her eyebrows rose. "That fancy corporate one?"
"Yeah. Big money. Sports division's expanding." He shrugged. "They've had me on hold for two months."
"That's not a no," she said immediately.
"Feels like one."
She shook her head. "No news is just no decision. Don't lose hope."
Zane smiled faintly. "You always say that."
"And I'm usually right."
He leaned back, exhaling. "I just want this to work. I'm tired of scraping by."
"I know," she said gently. "But you've built everything you have with your own hands. That matters."
He nodded.
Later, at the gym, the topic came up again.
"You hear anything yet?" Rico asked between sets.
"Nah," Zane said. "Still waiting."
"Patience, man. You're hot right now. Someone's gonna jump."
Zane hoped so.
Across the city, Lucien Camille sat in a glass-walled conference room, scrolling through digital files as his agent spoke.
"Sponsorship applications are piling up," the agent said. "Mostly mediocre."
Lucien's eyes flicked to one file.
Zane Calloway. MMA. Rising popularity. High engagement.
He paused.
"Bring that one back."
The agent blinked. "This one?"
Lucien studied the stats. "He's gaining traction fast. If we sign him now, before the peak, the return will be substantial."
"And his background?"
"Rough," the agent said. "But marketable. Authentic."
Lucien's lips curved slightly.
"Contact him," he said. "Schedule a meeting."
That evening, Adrien laughed as someone toasted to his success.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
Zane was in the shower when his phone rang.
His mom answered.
"Hello?"
There was a pause.
"Yes—this is she."
Her eyes widened.
"Of course. One moment."
She knocked on the bathroom door. "Zane?"
He opened it, dripping. "What?"
She held out the phone, eyes shining. "Someone from Camille Group."
Zane's breath caught.
He took the phone, heart pounding.
By the time the call ended, he was grinning like an idiot.
"They want to meet," he said. "They want to talk sponsorship."
His mom clasped her hands together, eyes closed. "Yes!"
They didn't throw a party. Didn't open champagne.
They just stood there, laughing softly, relief and hope filling the small apartment.
For the first time in weeks, Zane felt like the future had cracked open—just a little.
Neither of them knew yet how tightly their fates were already intertwined.