Elite Superstar: Your Favorite Singer Secretly Runs The World?!

* Beep...*

* Beep...*

* Beep...*

Brandon's eyes fluttered open to a hazy kaleidoscope of shapes and colors.

A jarring crack resounded in his skull as his neck snapped back into place, sending a dagger of pain straight down his spine.

'What the—?'

'I-I got shot in the head…'

'I shouldn't be alive.'

The thought had scarcely formed before a tidal wave of memories engulfed him. Images flashed by at dizzying speed:

A sprawling mansion, marble floors gleaming.

Designer suits hanging in a walk-in closet larger than most apartments.

His father's stern face, then a glimpse of lipstick on his collar.

A door slightly ajar, hushed voices and feminine giggles.

Harsh concrete under his feet as he walked away from everything he'd ever known.

Sneering faces in a high school ballroom, graduation gowns a mockery of celebration.

An inexplicable nausea and the white tiles of a washroom.

A shove, the world tilting, cold porcelain rushing up to meet him-

Brandon gasped, his heart racing as the flood of memories subsided.

For a moment, all he could hear was the steady beep of the heart monitor and his own ragged breathing.

He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the conflicting information in his head.

*Beep...*

*Beep... *

*Beep... *

The beeping of the medical equipment seemed to grow louder, matching the frantic rhythm of his pulse.

'What... what's happening to me?'

He lifted a hand to his face, marveling at the unfamiliar sensation of movement.

The room blurred into focus.

Sterile white walls, the antiseptic smell of a hospital, machines humming quietly beside his bed.

Brandon's gaze fell upon his own body—lean, muscular, beneath the thin hospital gown. This wasn't his body—not the one he remembered.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the tangle of memories.

Two lives—his own as a superstar producer and the life of... someone else

Someone also named Brandon Blackstone.

'I'm... both?' he thought, struggling to reconcile the conflicting identities warring in his mind.

'How is this possible?!'

Brandon's heart raced as he jolted upright, his body screaming in protest.

The oxygen mask clattered to the floor, and tubes yanked painfully from his arms.

*Beep!*

*Beep! *

*Beep! *

Machines shrieked their protest as he flailed, disoriented and panicked.

The room spun, a nauseating whirl of white walls and blinding fluorescent lights. His throat burned, raw and scratchy. The sterile hospital smell mixed with the coppery tang of blood where IV lines had torn free.

*Thud... Thud... Thud... *

Footsteps pounded towards him. Blurry figures materialized, crowding around his bed.

Voices melded into a chaotic chorus of shock and joy.

"Brandon! Oh my God, you're alive!"

"Someone get a doctor, quick!"

"Son, can you hear me?"

Brandon's eyes flitted wildly, struggling to piece together the bedlam.

His mother's tear-streaked face came into focus, mascara running down her cheeks.

His father stood rigid, knuckles white on the bedrail, eyes wide with disbelief.

His twin sister pushed through, her face a mix of joy and lingering fear.

"B, you scared us half to death!"

She reached for his hand, then hesitated, as if afraid he might shatter at her touch.

Brandon's gaze flicked between their faces, noting the red-rimmed eyes, the tear-stained cheeks.

They'd thought he was dead.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

His father's stern facade cracked, revealing a vulnerability no one else in the family had never seen before. The man's shoulders sagged with relief, years seeming to melt away in an instant.

Brandon's heart clenched as he absorbed the raw emotion radiating from his... family?

Their concern washed over him, a tidal wave of unfamiliar warmth that threatened to drown him.

'Is this... love?' he wondered, struggling to process the foreign sensation.

'They genuinely care about me huh. Well... about this Brandon at least.'

Memories of his past life flashed through his mind - cold nights on unforgiving streets, the constant struggle just to survive. No one had ever looked at him with such naked relief, such unconditional affection.

'I fought tooth and nail for every scrap, and this spoiled brat just threw it all away?'

Anger bubbled up, directed at the original Brandon whose body he now inhabited.

'You ungrateful little shit,' he seethed internally.

'Running away because daddy had a few side pieces? Are you kidding me?'

His gaze shifted to his father's haggard face, the deep lines of worry etched into his features.

'Yeah, the guy's no saint. But look at him now. He clearly gives a damn.'

Brandon's gaze shifted to his mother, her trembling hands reaching out to smooth his hair.

'And her... she didn't deserve to suffer because of your tantrum.'

His sister's anxious hovering caught his attention next.

'You have people who love you, who'd move heaven and earth for you. And you just... left?'

The absurdity of it all hit him then. Here he was, granted a second chance at life, complete with wealth, opportunity, and a family who actually cared.

'Well, "Brandon,"' he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

'Looks like you're getting a do-over, courtesy of yours truly.'

He took a deep breath, feeling the last vestiges of his old identity slip away.

'This is my life now. My family. My chance to experience everything I missed out on before.'

Resolve hardened within him. He'd make the most of this opportunity, seizing every advantage his new circumstances offered.

Brandon couldn't help but grin, his mind still reeling from the shock of his new reality.

The surrounding chaos faded to a background hum as his family bombarded him with questions, their voices merging into a blend of concern.

"Everyone, please!"

Victoria's cool voice sliced through the noise. Standing off to the side, arms crossed, she radiated calm authority.

"Give him some space."

Despite her nonchalant facade, Brandon glimpsed the flicker of relief, concern, and love in her eyes.

His mother took a deep breath, her hand trembling slightly as she waved it in front of his face.

"Sweetheart," his mother cooed, her voice thick with emotion, "are you alright? Can you hear us?"

Brandon blinked, snapping out of his daze. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, unfamiliar yet eager to form words.

"I-I'm okay..." he replied, the sound of his own voice shocking him to his core.

His eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly as the realization hit him like a thunderbolt.

He could speak.

The words had tumbled out effortlessly, without a second thought.

'HOLY SHIT!,' he thought, his mind racing.

'I can talk. I can actually talk!'

In his past life, Brandon had poured his soul into writing and producing chart-topping hits.

He'd crafted melodies that moved millions, penned lyrics that resonated across generations. But he'd always been relegated to the shadows, his muteness an insurmountable barrier between him and the spotlight.

Now, with this simple phrase, a world of possibilities exploded before him. His dream of becoming a superstar, once nothing more than a bittersweet fantasy, suddenly seemed within reach.

'This is it,' he realized, a surge of excitement coursing through him.

'This is my chance. I can sing my own songs, perform on stage, be the star I always knew I could be.'

The irony wasn't lost on him.

He'd spent a lifetime crafting words for others, and now, in this new life, he finally had a voice of his own.