Chapter 1: The Approach: Honeyed Words, Hidden Teeth
The city stretched out below them, a grid of molten gold and deep violet shadows. The air on the rooftop was cooler, a gentle breath that carried the lazy drift of a saxophone from the trio in the corner. Michael Jackson sat alone at a small table draped in emerald velvet, a single glass of sparkling water before him. His fingers traced the cool, beaded surface. He was a silhouette against the lavender dusk, slender and still, a stark contrast to the pulsing energy of his own stadium shows. Here, he was just a man in a sequined jacket, trying to drink a little quiet.
The scrape of a chair on marble made him flinch.
A shape filled the space beside him, large and sudden, blocking the soft glow of the hanging lanterns. Michael looked up, and up some more, into the face of a young man sliding into the seat uninvited.
“Hope you don’t mind the company,” the man said. His voice was a warm, confident baritone. “It seemed a shame for a view like this to have only one pair of eyes on it.”
Michael offered a small, tight smile, the kind he reserved for photographers and overeager executives. He said nothing. His posture tightened, drawing in.
“Jacob,” the man offered, extending a hand. It was enormous. “Jacob Elordi.”
Michael gave the hand a quick, feather-light touch. “I know who you are,” Jacob continued, leaning back. He was all sprawling limbs and calculated ease, his smile wide and disarming. “Everyone does. But seeing you from the third row at Wembley… that’s different. It’s not just watching. It’s feeling the air change.”
A compliment. Michael had heard a million. He gave a slight nod, his eyes darting toward the exit sign, a soft green pulse across the floor.
“You move like gravity’s just a suggestion,” Jacob mused, taking a sip from a drink he’d brought with him. His gaze was fixed on Michael, not with the frantic hunger of a fan, but with the appraising focus of a collector. “It’s pure. Unedited. That’s the art, right? The thing they can’t replicate or critique. The thing they just have to… feel.”
The word ‘feel’ lingered. Michael finally spoke, his voice softer than the breeze. “That’s very kind.” It was a dismissal, polite and practiced.
Jacob wasn’t dismissed. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, the space between them collapsing. The scent of his cologne, something woody and expensive, mixed with the rooftop’s floral smell. “I study performance. Actor.” He said it like a secret. “I break down movement, motivation, the spark behind the eyes. And with you…” He shook his head, a mock sigh of frustration. “I can’t crack it. The technique is one thing. The why is another. What’s the source? It’s gotta be fire. It’s too alive to be anything else.”
He paused, letting the distant jazz fill the gap. His next words were a murmur, almost lost under the trumpet’s moan.
“You dance like heaven,” Jacob said, his eyes locked on Michael’s. “But I wonder… do you burn like hell?”
The question hung in the air, sharp and intimate. It wasn’t about the performance anymore. It was a probe behind the curtain, a fingertip testing the temperature of a hidden flame. Michael’s breath caught. He looked down at his water, the bubbles rising in a frantic, silent stream. No one talked to him like this. No one was allowed this close.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Michael whispered.
Jacob’s smile softened, transforming from challenge to charm in a heartbeat. He withdrew, taking the pressure with him. “Sorry. Actor’s habit. Looking for the subtext in everything.” He took another slow drink. “It’s just, to give that much beauty to the world, there has to be a cost. A trade. I find that… fascinating.”
Michael finally met his eyes again. There was a curiosity there, beneath the alarm. This wasn’t the usual noise. This was a specific, pointed kind of attention, and part of him, the lonely part that lived beneath the sequins, was starved for it. “It’s not a trade,” he said, a little more force in his voice. “It’s a gift. From God.”
“I believe you,” Jacob said, and he sounded like he did. He pulled a pen from his jacket—a sleek, silver thing—and reached for Michael’s napkin. His hand was steady. “I’m being intense. Forgive me. It’s just rare to meet someone who operates on that frequency.” He wrote quickly, the script bold and slashing. “I’m shooting a film here for the next six weeks. If you ever want to talk. About art. About the source.” He slid the napkin across the marble.
On it, a phone number.
“No assistants,” Jacob added, standing. He towered over the table, a monument of casual intent. “Just… if you’re curious.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Just offered that same disarming smile and melted back into the rooftop crowd, leaving Michael alone with the napkin, the city, and the unsettling echo of the question.
Do you burn like hell?
Michael stared at the number. The digits seemed to pulse with the same rhythm as the neon sign across the street. He folded the napkin once, carefully, then again, until it was a small, thick square. He held it in his closed fist for a long moment, feeling the crisp edges press into his palm.
Then he opened his hand and let the folded napkin fall onto the table. He stood, his chair whispering against the floor, and walked away, leaving it there on the emerald velvet.
He was almost to the door, the cool metal of the handle in his grip, when he stopped. He looked back. The table was empty; a waiter had already cleared it. The napkin was gone.
A strange hollow feeling opened in his chest. Not relief. Something else.
He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click, sealing him away from the lavender sky. Below, in the bustling heart of the city, the night was just beginning. And somewhere in it, a number on a napkin was waiting to be called.