The clock read 3:52 a.m.
A soft chime vibrated from Ashton Hall's matte-black alarm, breaking the silence of his perfectly still penthouse. No jarring noise. No buzzing chaos. Just the subtle, elegant whisper of discipline.
He opened his eyes—calm, alert, already aware. The kind of wakefulness most people only achieved with caffeine and chaos. Ashton didn't need either. He was trained for this. Or perhaps, born for it.
He rose in one fluid motion, like a machine rehearsed a thousand times. The chilled air met his bare chest. He welcomed it. Suffering was a friend. Comfort was an enemy.
His followers—2.7 million on Holospace—called him the Morning King.
"Control your morning, and you control your destiny," he'd told them in yesterday's live Q&A. But no one really knew what drove him. They saw banana facials, Saratoga spring water soaks, and two-hour hyper-focused journaling sessions. They saw a man addicted to excellence.
What they didn't see was the journal hidden beneath the floorboard.
Ashton walked barefoot to the sink. The water was already chilled in the mini-fridge beside it, perfectly measured at 34°F. He dunked his face without a flinch. Ten seconds. Counted by breath.
He exhaled.
Another day had begun.
The hallway lights brightened in soft pulses as his steps guided him to the home gym. Sleek. Black. Quiet. Not a single poster, quote, or mirror. Ashton didn't need inspiration. He was the inspiration.
As he strapped into weighted resistance cuffs, he glanced once at the wall-mounted screen. It blinked:
DAILY METRICS
Resting HR: 41 bpm
Sleep Quality: 92%
Scheduled Engagement: 6:00 a.m. Live Meditation with VIP Subscribers
But something else caught his eye.
New message: "I tried your method. My brother's in the ICU now."
His fingers froze.
He stared at the message. No name. Just a grey avatar and those cold words.
He didn't move. For the first time in months, Ashton Hall missed a breath count.
---
By 4:45 a.m., the day was in motion again. Sprints. Pushups. Core. Followed by a fifteen-minute freeze chamber recovery. Then journaling.
He sat in the minimalist reading nook, ink pen ready. But instead of the usual mantras, he wrote a name.
Connor Hall.
His twin.
Buried in a facility far from cameras, fans, or admiration.
The page stayed blank for a while after that.
---
By 5:30, he posted a short reel. Ice dip. Banana peel mask. Time-lapse of his workout.
It racked up 118,000 views in eight minutes.
In the comments:
"This guy isn't real."
"I tried this and passed out lol."
"Morning King for president."
"What is he running from?"
That last one lingered.
Ashton stared at the comment longer than he meant to.
He closed the app. The world was watching a man crafted in discipline. Perfect. Untouchable. But inside, something was fraying. Not broken—but fraying.
And beneath the penthouse, under polished hardwood, under silence and ritual…
…Connor's screams still echoed in Ashton's memory.
---
At exactly 6:00 a.m., Ashton sat cross-legged before his subscribers. The screen flickered on.
"Peace begins with pain."
His voice was calm. Steady. Measured.
By 7:13 a.m., Ashton was already dressed in tailored linen slacks, his signature navy half-zip, and barefoot—always barefoot on meditation days. The skyline behind him gleamed with soft pastels, glass towers catching the light like halos.
He moved like a man in command. But the tremor in his hands hadn't left.
He sipped his turmeric chai slowly, seated in silence as his assistant, Elora, buzzed in through the penthouse intercom.
"Morning, Ash. Daily brief on your tab. And—um—someone's outside. Press. Again."
He blinked once. "Tell them I'm unavailable."
"They're saying it's a health concern. Related to the ICU message."
Silence.
Then Ashton rose, calm as a lake.
"Send them away. And lock the elevator."
Click.
He turned to his tablet. The daily briefing glowed.
TODAY'S PARTNERSHIPS
Sunrise™ Collagen Deal (LIVE Today @ Noon)
MindCore Wellness Interview (Pre-Recorded, embargo lifts at 9:00 a.m.)
Then… one line unplanned.
NEW INQUIRY:
Luca Derrane, independent journalist – urgent request. Subject: "Wellness vs. Delusion."
He frowned. That name again. She had emailed twice last month. Something about "the cult of productivity."
He deleted the message.
But five seconds later, another buzz.
New message from Luca Derrane:
"Ashton. ICU boy is real. His family wants answers. They're talking lawsuit. I'm trying to keep it clean. Help me."
He stared at it.
The cup in his hand suddenly felt heavy.
Downstairs, someone rang the penthouse bell.
Three times. Slow. Measured.
Like a routine.
Like a ritual.
He didn't move for a long time. And when he did, he walked—not to the door, but to the floorboard.
He pried it open. Took out the journal. A page of raw scrawl, unlike his perfect content.
"Connor. He said he could feel his bones melt. Said the morning voices were back."
He flipped the page.
A photo. Of the two of them.
Smiling.
Before the world called him King.
Before perfection became a prison.