far from what the eyes could see

📖 Chapter 1 – The Performance Killian adjusted the camera slightly, tilting it just enough to catch the soft glow of the city lights behind him. The view from Murray’s apartment did half the work already—clean, expensive, effortless. Perfect. He leaned back into the couch, relaxed, like this was nothing new. Like he belonged here. “Alright, alright… I can see you all coming in,” he said, flashing a slow smile as the numbers climbed. “Don’t act shy now.” Comments flooded the screen faster than he could read them. Hi Killian 😍 Notice me! You look good tonight! He chuckled, low and controlled, like he’d heard it all before—but his eyes stayed locked on the rising viewer count. There it was. That rush. Donations started trickling in. Then pouring. A small sound popped with each one, and Killian’s lips curved just a little more each time. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said, shaking his head like he was impressed—but not surprised. “You people don’t play.” He leaned closer to the camera now, lowering his voice slightly. “So tell me… who’s trying to get my attention tonight?” The chat exploded. Names. Emojis. Money. He gave them just enough—eye contact, a smirk, a few carefully chosen words. Nothing too real. Nothing too deep. Just the performance. Killian ran a hand through his hair, casually glancing at his reflection on the screen. The lighting hit just right. The angle was perfect. Looks. Presence. Control. He had learned that much. Why stress yourself building something from the ground up when people would pay just to be seen by you? “Some of you are working too hard,” he said, half-laughing. “Relax. There are smarter ways to live.” More donations. More attention. More validation. Yeah… this was it. This was smart work. An hour later, the stream ended. The screen went dark. Silence filled the room almost instantly. Killian didn’t move at first. The smile lingered on his face for a second too long… then slowly faded. He sat up, reaching for his phone. Numbers. That’s what mattered. He opened his earnings, scanning quickly. Not bad. But not enough. His thumb hovered for a moment, like he expected the number to change if he looked at it long enough. It didn’t. Killian exhaled quietly and leaned back again, staring up at the ceiling. The apartment suddenly felt… different. Too quiet. Too still. Too real. His eyes drifted around the room—the expensive furniture, the polished surfaces, the quiet kind of wealth that didn’t need to prove anything. Murray’s world. Not his. A notification buzzed on his phone. He glanced at it. Missed call: Mum Another message followed almost immediately. “Call me when you see this. It’s important.” Killian stared at the screen for a second… then locked his phone without replying. “Tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath. He stood up, stretching slightly, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. Everything was under control. It had to be. “Fake it till you make it,” he said quietly, almost like a reminder. Then he walked past the mirror— —and for a split second, he didn’t recognize the person staring back. Core Theme: 👉 “What happens when a man lives a lie so long… he can’t tell what’s real anymore?” He opened his earnings again. The number stared back at him. High enough to impress. Not high enough to feel safe. His thumb hovered over the screen. For a second… it flickered. Just for a second. Killian blinked. The number was normal again. “…Right,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else. A notification buzzed. Missed call: Mum Then another message: “Call me. It’s urgent.” He stared at it longer this time. Something about the word urgent sat wrong in his chest. He locked the phone. “Tomorrow.” The word felt heavier than ......