When your biggest problem is getting typecasted as the quintessential hero you should be pretty thankful. Brett knew that, and it wasn't that he didn't enjoy the money, the fame or the girls swooning over him. Heck, he could even accept his three luxurious homes, private jet and personal chef. It's just that there were... questions. Questions demanding answers. Questions from journalists demanding answers from him, Brett Motherfucking Connors. And he wasn't keen on going there. The journalists, naturally, wasn't keen that he wasn't keen. They pushed harder.
So he withdrew to The Spot. The sun warmed his face as he watched it set over a quiet sea. Gulls squawked, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Enjoying the silence. Enjoying the peace.
Until there was none.
Paparazzis. Snapped photos. Asked questions. It all happened in a blur. Fueled by pictures of a macho man in an atypical warm setting, rumours flourished. Was it true that his marriage with his wife was a sham? That their daughter was adopted? Kid looked slightly Asian, after all. Maybe he was into men?
It was then he understood the nature of The Spotlight. Stay in it too long and you won't be able to enjoy the sun.