The city always smelled different after midnight—like hot concrete, cheap cologne, and secrets nobody wanted to claim in daylight. I leaned against the chain-link fence behind Carter High, the metal cold through my hoodie, watching the streetlights flicker like they were tired of shining on us.
Fame looks bright on screens. Up close, it's blinding.
My phone buzzed for the fourth time in two minutes.
Maya: You good?
Maya: Turn on the news.
Maya: Lena, seriously.
I didn't answer. I already knew what was happening without looking.
"Still ignoring the world?" Jay asked, lighting up beside me. The flame briefly showed the scar on his eyebrow—a memory from a fight he never talked about. "That's cold, Star."
I hated that nickname.
"Don't call me that," I said. "You know I hate it."
Jay shrugged. "Hard not to. Whole city knows your face now."
That was the problem. The whole city knew my face, but nobody knew me.
A black SUV rolled past the school, windows tinted, bass rattling the street. For a second, I thought it would stop. My chest tightened the way it always did now—like danger had learned my heartbeat.
"Relax," Jay said, reading my body like a book. "If it was them, you'd know."
Them. The label we used when names felt too powerful to say out loud. Managers. Security. Industry people. Smiles with contracts hidden behind them like knives.
I finally unlocked my phone and opened the news clip Maya was talking about.
LOCAL TEEN STAR LENA CROSS SPOTTED IN 'DANGEROUS ENVIRONMENT'
The thumbnail was me. Hood up. Standing by this very fence.
My stomach dropped.
"They're watching me," I whispered.
Jay exhaled smoke slowly. "They been watching you."
I scrolled.
Sources claim the 17-year-old artist is still connected to 'street influences' that could damage her image.
Street influences.
That's what they called my life before the lights, before the studio, before the lies.
"Influences?" I laughed, sharp and humorless. "That's my neighborhood. That's my people."
Jay flicked the cigarette away and crushed it under his sneaker. "You gotta be smarter now, Lena. They'll use anything."
"I didn't ask for this," I snapped. The words burst out before I could stop them. "I didn't ask to be their 'young star.' I just wanted to rap. I just wanted out."
Jay looked at me for a long second. "Out always comes with a price."
Sirens wailed somewhere close—too close. Instinct kicked in, years of muscle memory telling me to move, to disappear.
"Come on," I said. "Walk me home."
We cut through alleys painted with old graffiti and newer anger. Every step felt heavier than it used to, like the city was pulling me back, reminding me where I belonged—even when the world was trying to drag me somewhere else.
My building stood crooked at the end of Maple, lights flickering in half the windows. Same place. Same cracked steps. Different me.
Jay stopped at the door. "You gonna be okay?"
I nodded, though we both knew it was a lie.
Inside, Mama was asleep on the couch, TV murmuring to itself. I covered her with a blanket and went to my room, locking the door like it could keep everything out.
I sat on my bed and stared at the posters on my wall. Half were old—artists who never made it out, legends who died too young. The other half were new.
Me.
Magazine covers. Promo shots. A girl who looked confident. Dangerous. Untouchable.
I didn't recognize her.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
I hesitated, then answered.
"Lena Cross," a smooth male voice said. "You're becoming a problem."
My blood ran cold. "Who is this?"
"A friend," he replied. "One who's invested in your future."
"I'm seventeen," I said. "Stop calling me."
He chuckled softly. "Fame doesn't care about age. And neither does the city."
The line went dead.
I threw the phone onto my bed, hands shaking. The walls felt too close, like they were leaning in to hear me break.
Instead, I grabbed my notebook.
If the world was going to hate me, if they were going to twist my story into something ugly, then I was going to tell it myself.
I started writing.
Bars poured out—raw, furious, honest. About being watched. About being owned. About loving a city that only loved you back when you were bleeding.
By the time the sun started creeping through my blinds, I knew one thing for sure:
They could call me a star.
They could sell my face.
They could fear my past.
But they didn't control my voice.
And if hatred was the price of being real—
I'd make it echo.