----

Aidann Ehwa was an idol.

His debut was a month away, after being put on the survival show “Heart of an Idol” and ranking second, just finishing promotions after the survival show’s finishing.

Aidann had been given the nickname, ‘Prince,’ after people had discovered that he had been a painting prodigy when young, as the Country X netizens marveled in his prince-like visuals and versatility. However, what he was most known for were his astounding vocals amongst the seven members of ‘CROWN,’ the group that had formed after “Heart of an Idol.”

However, he was now at a standstill.

Caspian Rav, the group’s leader, lead vocalist, and main dancer, looked over at Renjun’s panting form. They had just finished practicing a hard choreography for their upcoming single, ‘KING,’ and, needless to say, it wasn’t a good day for Dann.

He kept tripping over his feet, especially during the position change in the chorus.

The rest of the group members frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Caspian, the ever-charismatic flower boy, questioned.

His voice was a lightish blue.

Being a ‘flower boy’ was a term popular in the Asian pop industry, and had recently become a trend. Some of the group members didn’t like Caspian because he "acted as if he were the leader" while looking "feminine," and "girly," and was the group’s most popular member, but Aidann didn’t mind. As long as Caspian didn’t interfere in his affairs, it was alright with him.

“It’s just not my day today.” Aidann shrugged. His blunt, cold demeanor had warded off most of the groupmates, although they had to pretend to get along in front of the cameras. “Sorry. I’ll do better next time.”

Han, always the aggressor, scowled. As the main rapper and lead dancer, his volatile personality added to his ‘bad boy’ image. “Don’t get all stuck-up because the fans like you, Aidann.”

“I apologized.” Aidann blinked. “I don’t think I sounded arrogant, but if I did, then should I apologize again?”

“You-”

The rest of the members were used to observing Han’s insults against Aidann’s stoic, yet provocative responses, so none of them stepped in except Caspian, who defused the situation.

“We’re all a bit tired today, aren’t we?” the leader said, smiling as always. “Shouldn’t we call it a day? Right, manager?”

CROWN’s manager, after watching the escalating tension, nodded. “I agree.”

The group returned to their dorms. CROWN was LILA Entertainment’s biggest boy group at the moment, and since LILA was one of the biggest entertainment agencies around, it was spacious. It was around eleven when the dance practice ended, and, as everyone was tired to the bone, no one picked any fights and Aidann was left alone.

After updating his social media with a couple of selfies, and going to the bathroom, Dann took the rare break time he had between promotions to finally start painting.

Or rather, staring at the blank canvas that had been empty for the past month.

Aidann Ehwa, before he had entered the music industry, had been a painting prodigy: the artist, Hwa.

But he had encountered a block.

Strange.

Since he was young, Aidann had been invested in the arts. Painting, singing, dancing, had all come naturally to him. Prodigies like him were both envied and loved. Piano? Violin? Flute? Guitar? He could play all four. Maybe it had been his parents’ harsh urgings, and forced lessons, but music slowly became second nature. In the whistling of the wind, the rain, even in footsteps, Dann saw flashes of colors.

He blamed the music, on most days.

To the cameras, he had smiled when asked about his childhood.

“When I was young, I loved music,” he had said to the reporter, as if reminiscing about the past, “it follows me to this day.”

It was true. But the love faded away into complicated feelings - sometimes annoyance, hate, acceptance. Why? Because he was forced to do it; but the feelings alternated on days. He accepted it, most of the time.

On that interview day, a few netizens had noticed the tiny trace of resentment in his voice.

[Doesn’t Prince sound a bit resentful at the last sentence? Or is it just me?]

[Yeah, he sounds a bit off...does he not like to sing?]

[Above netizens: he is a genius. Why would he not love what he does for a living? You’re reading too much into it.]

[Yeah, I agree, he sounds fine lol…]

Aidann had never cared about what the netizens said. He cared about his fans, at least most of them.

Synesthesia.

That was what it was called. It hadn’t been revealed to the netizens, but his parents had gone crazy over it. When they had discovered he heard sounds as colors, and had been diagnosed with chromesthesia, the first urge they had wasn’t to talk about it. They pushed him more into music, to perhaps surround himself with it so that one day, maybe he would hear a sound and it wouldn’t be followed by a color.

He didn’t hate them. The colors, he meant.

He didn’t wish them gone the same way his parents did.

Painting.

The colors.

He played music while he was painting. Colors always came to him easily. He never had a particular subject in mind, but his abstract paintings had always sold to the highest bidder as Jun, the anonymous synesthete.

There was novelty in the rare, Dann supposed in disdain.

But Aidann Ehwa had hit a wall. He had an undeniable wall. Forcing himself to paint would be a waste of art supplies, but he attempted to anyway.

Opening his phone, he pushed earbuds into his ears as a recording of a piano recital played.

His own recording. When he hit blocks, he only listened to his own music.

But this block was longer than the others. The blocks were blocks. This was a wall.

Perhaps he had built it himself.

The piano music flowed in his ears.

Absolute pitch. If that didn’t make Aidann more of a freak, he didn’t know what did.

A classic. Moonlight Sonata, Third Movement.

He had finished the First and Second before the show, and both of the pieces had been auctioned, but the trilogy had been supposed to be finished a month ago. He delicately squeezed the paints onto the palette, his movements experienced as he dipped his paintbrush into the pre-prepared water.

The brush met the paint, and he could see the colors.

The music in his eardrums sped faster. The piano notes came in a barrage, and so did the colors. The Third Movement was hard to pinpoint. A flash of an intense red-navy. Aidann moved the brush across the canvas, speeding in arcs and color. Spirals, and splotches along with the chords. The first time he was playing it, he was hit with a wave of vivid color. This time it was expected, and his paintbrush followed his senses. He could feel the notes beneath his fingertips while he held the brush.

Anxiety. Anger. Perhaps even fear?

Getting closer to the ends were hints of blue.

Melancholy…?

Renjun dipped his brush into a deep purplish navy, marring the cluster of already formed shapes, adding orbs and brushstrokes.

The piano piece finished, and Aidann looked at the painting he had just created.

Derision could be seen in his eyes, as he quietly cleaned up the palette, his footsteps crinkling as he stepped on the paint-speckled newspaper on the floor. After wiping the brushes and putting them in their proper places, he faced the canvas.

It could sell for quite around a couple ten thousand dollars, but yet he sat on the bed, staring at the canvas with disdain.

Trash.

Forcing himself to paint, was as good as making him create trash.

Aidann blinked at the trash he had just created, before collapsing on the bed and entering sleep.

When you hit a wall, everything you could do was trash. Even if it was a wall you built yourself.

Aidann expected to have a nightmare, maybe a vivid one from one of his favorite webnovels, chased by grotesque monsters. But in his dreams - or was it reality? - he was met with a robotic voice, and two, game-like options.

Would you like to escape? Yes/No

This scenario was oddly familiar, as if he had read it somewhere.

The wall? Reality? This dream?

The voice...didn’t invoke color.

Perhaps mesmerized by this fact, Aidann raised his finger forward and pressed the option on the left.

[Player Aidann Ehwa] has chosen option [Yes] [Player Aidann Ehwa] is given gift ‘Creation’ (!) Finding Host Body… (!) Preparing Soul Transfer

Aidann was hit with a barrage of notifications, all of which seemed even more familiar, like sentences he had read before just in different words.

Where have I heard this…?

Safe Travels, [Player Aidann Rella] Good luck, Creator

Huh?

The darkness enveloped him once more, and he woke up.

In a body that wasn’t his.

----

Around eight years ago, Novarra was sixteen.

When Novarra was ten, her mother had fled. Most of the protagonists in the transmigration novels that she read either had crappy families, none at all, or the occasional loving family that was always used against them or never seen again after the first chapter.

She didn’t remember much about Sachia Kiye.

Hazy features, perhaps, and the odd remembrance of a self-preservationist statement, but Novarra wasn’t good with faces. She could describe them, but if she didn’t see them every day, it was hard to recall them.

Her mother had been the reason why Novarra had grown up the way she had: most people would call the current Varra either a cynic or a practicalist, depending on whether they belonged to the latter or not.

Real life and fantasy were always different.

Real life was a shitty place, but Varra had more or less accepted it.

Novarra had monetary support from Navven, so her life had been comfortable.

Sixteen years of being a rich heiress. Pretty, rich, and intelligent. Novarra had it all.

Except family of course, but she considered her current life satisfactory.

Ai.

The long limousine she had been riding in screeched to a halt.

School.

“Driver Lin, could you pick up some cake from the bakery and send it to the bungalow? I’m staying there tonight,” she said casually, slipping her phone into her uniform pocket.

Her chauffeur nodded. There was no need to ask which bakery, or which cake. After spending a long time with Novarra, he had already been accustomed to her likings.

“Alright. I’ll ask Dina to move your supplies.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Contrary to popular belief, not all rich children were spoiled brats. Most of them were pampered, but Novarra had met more than a few decent ones. However, there was a certain hierarchy among them in the school she attended. If it was organized into a pyramid, Varra would be lingering around the upper-second tier.

The first tier belonged to those deeply rooted in old money - as long as Novarra kept her head down, and didn’t attract much attention, there wouldn’t be any problems. Besides, although Novarra came from new money, Ultra Enterprises was influential. Those ‘ranked’ below her usually didn’t bother her, too.

Of course, Country X had a fairly conservative society, but most youths were starting to have more liberal beliefs, like Novarra herself. However, crimes like assault and harassment among minors were prevalent. Novarra stepped in when she could, but she couldn’t see everything that happened behind closed doors.

If she were religious, she would’ve prayed for those in the lower tiers.

Stepping into the school, Varra unravelled her earphone strings and popped them into her ears.

"Na na na na na na na na na na~"

Silently humming along with the song, Novarra walked towards her first classroom. The school was fairly lax with most rules, since it was home to rich children, so as long as Novarra's grades didn’t drop, there wouldn’t be anything wrong.

Just as she was about to enter the classroom, she felt a shoulder bump into her.

Annoyed, Varra plucked her earphones out and turned towards the figure who had brushed shoulders with her. He looked around fifteen, with wide eyes and long eyelashes.

Tch.

The classroom lull quieted. Even if Novarra kept to herself most of the time, she was still a second-tier heiress. That meant if she got angered, things would be messy.

“Uh, he doesn’t understand the language, he’s from-” one of the youth’s friends spoke up, but was interrupted by an elbow, and a whisper. “That’s the Novarra, Kev... Alexander should handle it by myself, we can’t go against the Ultras…”

Novarra recognized the friends as third-fourth tier families.

Aiii. I’m not even that notorious…

Alexander looked around, evidently confused.

But apparently he had offended someone that couldn’t be offended.

“Sor-”

“What’s your name?” Novarra asked in fluent English.

She had entered an international school expecting communication from those with different nations, so she had learned a bit of the basics, and more.

The youth blinked, and his friends looked surprised.

“Alexander Smith,” he answered.

Novarra paused.

“Be careful next time,” was her only reply. Cold, and brisk.

Alexander Smith blinked again, and looked thankful, responding with a slight bow.

“Thank you very much,” he replied, gratefully, “sorry again.”

Novarra waved him off, and took a seat just as the chattering returned to the classroom. Most of the people here craved fights and arguments like they were watching City X dramas. All of them were forced to wear uniforms, but piercings and the occasional bracelet were considered alright. As such, many of them contorted their arms in unusual angles to show off their latest purchased pieces.

Usually, shewas in a window seat near the back row, but today she saw the usually-empty seat next to her occupied...by another student. He looked new, with smooth pale skin and curved yet sharp features. Dark hair covered stone-like eyes, which contained a trace of mirth. Like a statue that could move at times. An impassive, pretty statue that was staring at her. Varra could see him mouthing words to himself.

Novarra’s mouth quirked out of its own volition as she tilted her head.

He was still staring.

He had no accessories that could suggest his status, but it wasn’t if she would treat him any differently either way. She moved towards her seat, took out her earphones, and was about to sit when the statue moved his lips.

“You have nice music taste.”

A melodious voice. Low, yet high. A contradiction, of sorts.

He was referring to the song display flashing on the screen of Novarra’s phone, where she’d forgotten to pause autoplay. An obscure song, yet one of Varra's favorites.

The lull quieted down once again. Novarra could practically feel the eyes of various sixteen-year-olds boring into her back, waiting to see her reaction.

Snakes, the whole lot of them…

“Thanks,” she replied, not letting any particular emotion show on her face except a small smile. After sitting down, she put one of her earphones back in, and, after cleaning it with a tissue in case he was a germaphobe, offered the other bud to the statue.

Slight surprise could be seen in his eyes, but he accepted, and, after the class saw there wasn’t going to be any face-slapping today, returned to their activities.

He outstretched a hand towards Novarra.

A handshake.

Surprisingly, the hand was like porcelain, with long, thin fingers belonging to the label Varra had named ‘artist hands.’ Piano players, painters, musicians in general, really, or typists, tended to have those delicate, yet strong hands. Novarra accepted, slipping her own into his. She, too, had artist hands, from occasionally piano playing. His hand was dry, yet warm.

“Aidann Ehwa,” he offered.

Novarra smiled.

“Novarra Ultra.”

After exchanging a meaningful conversation, and song recommendations, Novarra had found somewhat of a friend. The teacher had introduced him as a potential idol trainee, to which Varra was surprised. She’d pegged him as more of the art type, but she could see how his graceful limbs would be suited for dancing, and his voice for singing.

“Aidann’s grown up with music,” the teacher had added, to which Aidann had reacted. It was tiny, but she could see his shoulders stiffen.

Ah. So he isn’t doing what he wants to? Novarra guessed.

Pity was something Novarra didn’t dish out easily. To her, it was basically condemning someone to their situation. Attempting to understand something, however, was something she could do. And Novarra understood being forced or groomed to take a mantle or do something unwillingly.

The rest of the day, Aidann and Novarra had bonded, in a weird way.

She had questioned him, “You look like the type of person who does art. Why are you doing music?”

“I dabble in both,” was his stoic reply.

It was evident he didn’t want her to press further, so she didn’t.

They had eaten lunch together, and had faced trouble together.

When Novarra had placed a bit of her chicken in Aidann’s lunch box, as his vegetable-filled diet dish looked almost forlorn, she had heard a voice.

“Ah, Varra, haven’t you only met him for a day?”

Novarra sighed internally.

Everyone had at least that one annoying person you can’t get rid of no matter what, that leech who keeps sticking to your ankle stubbornly...for Novarra, that leech was Siobhan McSweeney.

She could tolerate the fact that Siobhan mooched off her even though the McSweeney Corporation was almost as big as Ultra Enterprises and pretty well-off. Hell, she could even tolerate her name-dropping every sentence in their one-sided conversations, or picking on the other girls in her class. As long as it didn’t cross Siobhan’s lines, she really didn’t give a shit.

But what she despised about the leech named McSweeney was that she pretended to be a good person.

That was what she hated.

Novarra could be blunt. She could be two-faced, deceitful, cold, teasing, selfish, or playful, and sometimes all at once. But she never thought herself a good person. Her moral lines and zones were all things she had established to keep herself sane, or her definition of ‘human,’ in a sense. She felt that it was something she had to do. But never in her life did she think of herself as ‘good.’

The one pet peeve she had was when people acted superior to others simply because they saw themselves as ‘good.’

Siobhan McSweeney was one of those people.

Innocent-eyed, the girl continued, “He might be a bad person. You should be careful, Varra. Some of the new kids, they might not be like me…”

Aidann blinked.

Novarra smiled, knowing what she was implying.

Tilting her head, she put on a fake friendly tone, “Oh, Siobhan, Aidann’s parents are one of Ultra Enterprises’ business partners. I met him a few months ago, but he just recently transferred here, so don’t worry.”

If Siobhan pressed further, that would mean indirectly questioning the validity of Ultra Enterprises. She wasn’t stupid, so the leech backed off.

“Alright then, Varra.” She looked somewhat hurt, even though Novarra knew the leech knew exactly what she was doing. The leech had labeled herself one of Novarra’s closest friends - even though Varra had no real ones. In private, she had heard Siobhan justify to herself all the deeds she had done, as if it made her any better - as if she was better.

“Alright then.” Novarra blinked. “Goodbye.”

Ignoring her, Varra continued placing another piece of chicken on Aidann’s lettuce. Albeit childishly, she arranged them in the form of a smile. After she heard Siobhan’s reluctant footsteps, Novarra relaxed.

“I can’t eat too much fatty meat,” the statue said after a while.

Novarra pouted. “It’s only three strips, it shouldn’t be any problem. It’s from one of the best restaurants in the city.”

The statue frowned slightly, but continued eating.

A comfortable silence.

Even though they had only met each other for a day, Novarra felt a connection. It was as if they had known each other for years - or would know each other.

A crush? Love? she guessed, but vetoed the options, neither of the sort. It would be foolish - love at first sight doesn't exist. Interest, perhaps.

“She called you Varra?” he finally asked.

Novarra joked, “would you like to call me Varra then?"

Aidann didn’t reply, only placing lettuce on top of Novarra’s meat.

“You have too many faces,” he responded, stonily.

“What, do you want me to revert back to my Ice Queen one?” she asked, teasing, just as she chewed the lettuce.

The statue met Novarra’s eyes, and said, lightly, “Aren’t they all you?”

As if Varra had been struck by lightning, she widened her eyes, surprised.

Aren’t they...all you?

At sixteen, Novarra’s two-facedness had been what helped her survive. Sometimes the maids that were employed, the chauffeurs, the nannies, even the butlers, were all watching her every move.

Aren’t they all you?

Several of them were employed by her relatives, who had paid them to report her weaknesses. So, she had painstakingly crafted and put on many masks, so many that the young Novarra didn’t even know who was behind it.

Aren’t they all you?

It was a mechanism designed to both survive and cope, something that had gradually become a part of her personality?

But ‘aren’t they all you’ had opened up another train of thought, a train that Novarra made a mental note to follow later.

“I guess so,” she said simply, after a period of ruminating over his sentence.

After school had ended, she had waved goodbye.

Novarra had planned to ask him to go to a small restaurant the next day, but when she had arrived, he was gone. Apparently, the school hadn’t been a good fit for him.

She had been a bit hurt.

Being abandoned yet again was another pang in her heart.

But Novarra wasn’t stupid enough to go chasing after a stranger, in the name of true friendship or anything like that. Perhaps, in the future, if she saw him again, she would contact him; but a small day in a sixteen-year-old’s life wasn’t worth it.

She would likely never meet him again.

Or so she thought.