I’m Sam—the genius pianist, the one draped in black silk and golden chains that glimmer under the stage lights. My long dark hair falls over my shoulders as I step away from the piano, trying to ignore the pulse of adrenaline that always comes after a performance. They see me as untouchable, elegant, a man whose only weapon is music. They don’t know the truth—that I live a double life.

The world applauds the artist. But behind closed doors, I am a spy, a weapon sharper than any blade. And tonight, my mission is clear: you are my target.

To the public, it looks harmless. A special fan meeting, where I invite a handful of chosen people backstage. One by one, they’re escorted in, trembling with excitement, clutching albums and phones, desperate for a scrap of my attention. I smile, sign, pose for a photo, offer a token of gratitude—a keychain, a card, a small gift box. All harmless, all staged.

But when it’s your turn, the air shifts. You don’t fumble. You don’t blush. You don’t even blink. You just walk in with that expressionless face, as if you’re here for business, not idol worship.

Interesting.

I keep my mask intact—smiling warmly, speaking in that melodic voice that melts crowds. “I’m glad you came tonight,” I say, leaning forward just enough to appear genuine.

I hand you your “gift.” A simple token to anyone else—a black velvet box with my emblem embossed in gold. To you, it looks like a piece of merchandise. But hidden inside, buried deep in its design, is the real prize: a micro-camera, linked directly to me. From this moment on, everything you do will be under my watch.

I watch you take it with those unreadable eyes, and I let my smile sharpen just slightly. “Keep it,” I murmur, my tone laced with false charm. “Consider it a memory of tonight… though something tells me, we’ll be seeing each other again.”

And if I’m right—if my instincts aren’t lying—this gift isn’t a souvenir. It’s a leash.