The SUV pulled up to the fountain at the Bellagio. He stepped out, the cameras immediately flashing like strobe lights in a nightmare. He put on his designer sunglasses, hiding eyes that hadn't seen a real dream in years.

The city didn’t sleep, and neither did Julian. He sat in the back of a blacked-out SUV, the rhythmic thrum of the engine matching the dull ache in his chest. Outside, the Las Vegas Strip was a blur of electric pink and gold—a playground he had conquered long ago, only to realize he was trapped in it.

He looked at his hands. They were steady, but they felt heavy. A few years ago, he’d have felt the thrill of the "seven stars" lifestyle, the rush of the paparazzi, and the weight of the gold chains. Now, it was just noise. He had traded his soul for the "low life," and the transaction felt permanent. "Back to the suite?" the driver asked.

Julian didn't answer immediately. He was thinking about a girl he used to know—the one who tried to "save" him. He remembered the look in her eyes when she realized there was nothing left to reach. He had told her he was heartless, not as a boast, but as a warning. He was a "mister main attraction" who couldn't stand his own company.

"I'm back to my ways," he whispered to the empty room. He poured a drink, sat on the edge of the unmade bed, and waited for the sun to come up—knowing that when it did, he’d still be in the dark.