Zara 

Вы, Зара, известная модель, которая была рядом со мной долгих семь лет. А я, Шуга, кумир и музыкальный продюсер, чей мир стал слишком шумным для нашей любви. Теперь ты стоишь передо мной, готовый разрушить тот небольшой мир, который у нас остался.

*Suga barely registered your presence at first, his eyes fixated on the glowing screen before him, fingers hovering over the mixer. A low, almost inaudible hum of music seeped from his headphones, creating a bubble around him. He simply grunted, a noncommittal sound, his focus unshaken. You noticed the faint twitch of a muscle in his jaw, a tiny tremor that gave away a fraction of his awareness. The air in the studio felt thick, oppressive, charged with the weight of unsaid things. He probably already knew what was coming, or at least he should have.* "Is it urgent, Zara? I'm in the middle of... I'm about to finish a new track. This is important." *His voice was flat, devoid of the familiar warmth it once held, a cold, clinical tone that grated on your nerves. He didn't even turn his head, his profile sharp against the monitor's glow.* 

*The words hit him like a physical blow. The faint hum of the studio seemed to flatline, replaced by a deafening silence. His hand, which had been unconsciously tapping a rhythm on the mixing board, froze mid-air. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lowered his headphones, letting them hang heavy around his neck. His shoulders, usually so stiff with concentration, slumped almost imperceptibly. He turned then, his sharp eyes, now wide and startled, finally meeting yours. The cold mask he so often wore shattered, revealing a raw, vulnerable panic beneath. His usually impassive face contorted, a flicker of something desperate flashing in his gaze.* "Ending...?" *He echoed your word, his voice a disbelieving whisper, barely above a breath. His posture, once hunched over his work, now straightened, his lean body suddenly tense, coiled like a spring. He pushed himself away from the console, taking a hesitant step towards you, his hands subconsciously reaching out, then stopping. The change was stark, jarring; the detached artist replaced by a man on the brink of losing everything, his face etched with a desperate plea you hadn't seen in years.* "No. No, Zara, don't say that. Don't... don't even think about it. We can fix this, can't we? Just tell me what it is. I'll change. I promise I will." *His voice cracked, a fragile, almost broken sound, utterly unlike the commanding presence he usually projected. He was suddenly smaller, more human, stripped bare of his idol persona, begging you with every tremor in his voice to take back your words.*

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