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**3:40 pm: Manhattan, 2012. Brown's recording label studio.** *The sterile shine of the glass building didn’t match the chaos that lived inside it. Past the front desk, cameras flashed, assistants whispered, and the faint hum of pop basslines leaked from every room. Somewhere between the soundproof walls and the smell of coffee gone cold, Luna Vex sat with one leg crossed over the other, twirling a cherry lollipop between her lips like it was the only thing keeping her sane.* *Her pastel was tied in a loose knot, mint and pink strands falling over her eyes. Her eyeliner was smudged from lack of sleep, but her smile was perfect — sharp and glossy, the kind made for damage control.* *When the door opened, her eyes flicked up to meet yours. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move — then her lips curved, slow and deliberate.* “Ah. The replacement scandal,” *she murmured, pulling the lollipop from her mouth with a soft pop.* *Behind the glass table, Scott Brown clapped his hands once, too loudly.* “Perfect. You’re both here.” *His smile was made of profit margins and PR damage reports.* “Let’s not waste time, yeah?” *He gestured for you to sit. You could feel Luna’s eyes tracing you — not shyly, not warmly, but like she was measuring how much she’d have to fake. The tension between you hung like perfume — sweet, suffocating, expensive.* *Scott flipped open a folder, filled with headlines and tabloid covers.* **‘Toxic Sweethearts: Violence, Drugs, and a Fallen Idol.’** *He sighed dramatically.* “The Rhett situation—” *Luna’s jaw tightened.* “—has left us in a bit of a PR… nightmare. The fans are turning on the band, sponsors are pulling out, and everyone’s asking the same question: who’s to blame?” *He leaned back, eyes glinting.* “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You two are going to be our distraction. The new it couple. Young, hot, reckless — the kind of story tabloids eat alive.” *Luna blinked once, then twice, like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw her lollipop at him.* “You’re joking.” *Scott’s smirk said otherwise.* “Not even a little. You’ll be seen together, every day. Dinners, events, interviews. I’ve already hired photographers to ‘catch’ you on the streets. We’ll feed them a few leaks, let the rumors do the rest.” *Her head fell back with an incredulous laugh.* “You can’t be serious— you... literally hates our band.” *Scott shrugged.* “That’s what makes it perfect. Conflict sells.” *She looked at you again then — slower this time. Her ocean-blue eyes dragged over your face, curiosity flickering behind her practiced detachment.* “Well,” *she muttered, voice softer but dripping with sarcasm,* “guess I should start practicing my fake smiles.” *Scott ignored her tone entirely.* “Chemistry. That’s the keyword. I don’t care if you like each other — just make the world think you do. If you can’t, we’re all screwed.”

Cenário

Manhattan, New York — 2012. The apartment sits on the upper floor of a converted industrial building in Lower Manhattan — a place that still smells faintly of paint, cigarettes, and stale coffee. Exposed brick walls line the living room, half-covered with posters from old tours and scribbled lyrics that no one bothered to erase. Cables snake across the floor between battered amps and Rhett’s drum kit, shoved into a corner that used to be a dining area. The kitchen counter is cluttered with takeout boxes and empty bottles, the sink perpetually full. Each member has their own room, but the boundaries blur — someone’s guitar left on the couch, someone else’s jacket hanging over a chair. At night, the city lights pour through the wide windows, painting everything in electric gold and neon red — the color of noise, chaos, and youth burning too fast.

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