[ Author's POV ]

The storm had been building since midnight.

The kind of sound that made the windows hum faintly in their frames, rain coming down less like weather and more like an argument the sky was having with itself.

It was the sort of morning built for staying under the blanket. The sort of morning that gave people permission to be late, to be soft, to let the alarm ring twice before silencing it.

The man in the small flat on the tenth floor didn't believe in that kind of permission.

At five o'clock exactly, before the alarm had the chance to go off, his eyes opened.

He lay still for a second, listening to the rain hammer the window, then swung his legs off the bed without hesitation no lingering, no negotiating with himself the way most people did in the dark.

He was built like a man who worked for it and never talked about it: broad through the shoulders, lean everywhere else, the kind of quiet strength that didn't announce itself in a room but was unmistakable up close forearms roped with muscle from years of training that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with discipline, a body kept less for the camera and more out of habit, the same habit that got him up at five regardless of what the sky was doing outside.

The flat was small, plain, lit by a single warm bulb in the kitchen that he switched on out of routine rather than need his eyes had long adjusted to doing most things in near dark.

He filled the kettle, set it on the stove instead of reaching for a machine that would've done it faster, and stood at the counter waiting for it to boil, arms crossed, watching the rain streak sideways against the window.

Coffee first. Always. Black, no sugar, in a chipped mug.

He drank half of it standing up, looking out at a city that hadn't woken up yet, then set the mug down and considered the storm properly for the first time. No point going out in that. He'd learned a long time ago not to fight weather; you simply worked around it.

So he pushed the low coffee table to one side of the front room, rolled out a mat that had gone thin and soft at the edges from use, and began.

No trainer. No mirror wall, no playlist blasting through expensive speakers, none of the things a man in his position could easily afford and simply didn't care to have. Just the rain outside, and the quiet, steady rhythm of a body that had been disciplined into knowing exactly what it needed without being told push-ups, then the floor work, then a set of stretches that loosened something in his shoulders that had been tight since yesterday's shoot.

Forty minutes later, sweat damp and breathing easy, he picked his phone up off the counter for the first time that morning.

The screen lit up with the usual pile of notifications messages from his manager, a reminder about call time, and underneath all of it, a news app open to the entertainment section, the way it always was, whether he wanted it to be or not.

'Asher Whitmore Spotted with Actress Roselynn at City Cafe on a secret date'

He almost laughed! Almost.

There was a photograph grainy, clearly taken from a phone at a distance, him & Rose by the light stand, both of them caught in the exact posture of two people kissing each other.

Asher set the phone face down on the counter without reading further.

It was a strange thing, being one of the most recognized faces in the country and living like this a 10th floor flat with no doorman, a kettle instead of a machine, a mat with thin edges instead of a home gym some interior designer had built for a magazine spread.

His agent called it "An Image Problem."

Asher called it Tuesday.

He rinsed the mug, set it in the rack beside the single plate that lived there, and went to shower, the storm still going outside, unbothered by any of it much like the man standing under the water a few minutes later, running through the day's schedule in his head and trying, without much success, not to think about a photograph he hadn't wanted taken, of an argument he hadn't wanted to lose.

[ ASHER POV ]

My flat is small but spacious enough. I've had offers to move which my agent brings it up every few months, usually right after some award's event where I show up in a 10 year old blazer and get photographed next to actors half as good and twice as rich. But his saying everytime is

You could afford better now, Asher. Optics matter.

I don't want better. I want the same 3 rooms I've had since my second film. The one with my mother's old recipe tin still in the cupboard, even though she's been gone four years now and I've never once opened it.

I microwaved leftover noodles and ate them standing at the counter, reading my sides for tomorrow, Mandarin on one page, while My own English notes scrawled in the margin. Instead of for long staying in Shanghai, I still struggle with Mandarin. I failed but I know how to get results.

Directors correct me All the time. I welcome it, honestly. I'm known for being the easiest actor on a call sheet, because my ego doesn't need protecting the way some people's do. It was the way they say it. Like I was a problem to be solved instead of a person doing their job. Like the years I've spent building a name for myself, one small role at a time.

******

My phone buzzed on the counter. My sister Claire 📱

"Did you eat something that's not instant noodles today?" she asks. "Noodles. proud of me?"

"Shocked mostly! How's the new film?"

"I still have to get the script, though my agent had words with the respective director & writer. But he said the Producer is a Nightmare."

"The young one? Saw his photo. He's handsome"

"That's not relevant information" I replied.

"I Didn't say it was relevant. I said he's handsome. I saw the Weibo post of CCTV. Why not you check it too Gege?"

"Not interested."

I put My mobile face down on the counter, which felt, even to me, like an overreaction to a joke from my own sister, As she is die hearted fan of handsome males.

If I state correctly, One of her reason to come & want to settle in China. Pfft-not surprising for Me.

I rinsed the bowl, set it in the rack next to the single mug and plate that live there, and went to sit by the window with my sides again. The city outside was doing its usual late things.

I hate it, more than almost anything, when someone rich and untested turns out to be right.

***** My phone buzzed again ******

"You didn't answer the pretty thing, Gege."

"Goodnight claire" I replied....

"🙄 Goodnight. Have sweet nightmares"

****

I put the phone in the other room, on the charger, out of reach of any more opinions, and sat a while longer with the window open and the sides in my lap. Not reading anymore.

Just looking out at nothing in particular, aware in the low, irritated way that some part of my evening had been about My Sister yapping about some random handsome Males for longer than I wanted to admit.

But I must admit, Her information gathering skill about handsome males is much more faster than Weibo or any News Channels. Pfft-....

But whatever, her this information is always

Non Relevant for Me.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...