Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 64: My Best Friend

The office is its usual cocoon of silent, filtered warmth. I sit at my desk, a file open before , but my attention is fractured. My gaze keeps drifting to Angel.

He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, a slender silhouette against the sprawling cityscape that glitters under the midday sun. His golden eyes are fixed on the distant horizon, unblinking, as if trying to absorb the vastness. A small, fond smile tugs at my lips.

I set the file down with a soft thud.

"Do you like it?"

He blinks, startled from his reverie, and turns to quickly. He nods. "Yes. It’s beautiful. And so... high."

I lean back in my chair, my smile softening.

"I thought you might be afraid of heights."

He looks back out at the cityscape, his expression contemplative. After a pause, he says quietly, "No. I’m not. I like it."

His hand rises, fingertips pressing lightly against the cool, clear glass. "It feels like we’re in the sky."

I watch him. The simple wonder in his voice, the way he seems both present and miles away, makes my smile fade into sothing more thoughtful.

He looks lost, but in a good way—discovering a world he’s only ever observed from the ground.

I stand up and walk over to him, stopping by his side. "Angel," I say, my voice gentle.

"Do you like mountains?"

He looks at , a faint, warm blush touching his cheeks. He nods.

My own hand cos up, mirroring his, my fingertips resting on the glass beside his. Our hands don’t touch, but our pinkies brush, a whisper of contact.

"Let’s go to the mountains," I say. "On a vacation. Just us."

He stares at , surprise widening his eyes. I hold his gaze, locking onto the beautiful, hesitant gold of his irises.

"What do you think?"

He blinks, looking away briefly before eting my eyes again. "It’s... a good plan."

A real smile breaks across my face. I reach over and take his hand properly, giving it a gentle, affirming squeeze.

"Then it’s a deal. After this perfu project, we go. Together."

Our eyes hold, a promise hanging in the sunlit space between us and the sky.

Then, a knock at the door shatters the mont.

Angel flinches at the sound, a full-body jerk of nervous energy. I step back smoothly, straightening my posture, dropping his hand.

"Co in."

The door opens. It’s the young staff boy from before—Ziya. The one who spilled coffee all over . His eyes dart from to Angel, then imdiately drop to the floor.

"Sir, you called for ?"

"Yes," I say, my tone shifting to calm authority. I glance at Angel. "Angel, this is Ziya." Angel looks at the boy, confusion plain on his face.

I turn my attention back to Ziya. "Ziya, I’d like you to keep my best friend company today." I emphasize the words best friend.

Ziya slowly looks up at Angel, offering a small, shy nod. "Nice to et you, Mr. Angel."

Angel returns the nod, a silent, graceful dip of his head.

"Make sure," I continue, my tone light but leaving no room for error, "that in my absence, Angel isn’t bored."

"Understood, sir," Ziya murmurs.

I look back at Angel, my expression softening into a reassuring smile. "I have to go handle so work. Ziya will show you around, keep you company."

I step forward, intending to leave.

Angel’s hand shoots out, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of my sleeve. I freeze, looking back at him.

He’s holding on like a lifeline, his eyes wide with a sudden, palpable panic. He doesn’t want to go.

I cover his hand with mine, gently prying his grip loose. "Don’t worry," I murmur, low enough for only him to hear.

"He’s a good boy. And he’s an Oga, like you. I think you two could be good friends."

Angel looks at with the eyes of a child being left on the first day of school—scared, trusting, pleading.

I smile softly, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go. "I need to go now."

He nods, the motion small and resigned.

I look at Ziya, my expression turning politely firm. "Be good with my friend. He’s a little shy."

"Yes, sir," Ziya says, his voice earnest.

I walk to the door. Ziya is quick, darting forward to open it for . I pause on the threshold and cast one last glance back into the room.

Angel’s eyes are still fixed on , wide and watchful.

I offer him one final, soft smile—a silent promise that I’ll be back—and then I step out, closing the door on the image of my beautiful, nervous Angel and the shy Oga boy I’ve left to watch over him.

The car glides to a stop not at a studio, but at the edge of a manicured public garden, transford today into a chaotic, vibrant circus.

The air thrums with a high-pitched, screaming energy. Fans—a sea of them, held back by velvet ropes and stern security—chant and wave banners, their voices a single, feverish roar.

Moon Arden.

Just like the author described. The male lead. Born into the obscene wealth of K-Country’s elite, heir to empires, yet he chose the spotlight. He craves this—the adoration, the fa, the title of number one. It’s not a career for him; it’s a coronation, and this garden is his throne room today.

The driver opens my door, his face etched with concern as the wall of sound hits us.

"Young Master... are you certain you wish to go in there?"

I look at him, my expression perfectly calm. "Hmm? What’s the matter?"

He glances nervously at the pulsating crowd."It’s... exceptionally crowded, Young Master."

A small, composed smile touches my lips. "Don’t worry."

I step out. The sound is a physical slap—the screams, the shouts, the frantic clicking of caras held aloft by the press corps at the periphery.

Before I can take two steps, a man in a headset and a harassed expression practically jogs toward , smoothing his suit jacket.

"Good evening, Mr. Kael!" he says, bowing slightly.

The shoot’s manager.

"Good evening," I reply, my voice cool, professional, perfectly modulated to be heard without straining.

He gestures urgently, and two large, silent n in impeccable black suits materialize beside him.

"These gentlen are for your security, Mr. Kael. The crowd is quite... enthusiastic. Please, this way."

I give a single, graceful nod of acknowledgent. The bodyguards fall into step slightly behind and to either side of , creating a moving bubble of space.

I don’t hurry. I don’t react to the chaos. I simply walk.

And the crowd... parts.

It’s not the guards that do it, not really. It’s the recognition. The whispers cut through the screams like knives.

"That’s... Zyren Kael."

"The Kael heir?"

"What is he doing here?"