Rooms With Teeth
Before the Night Turns
October didn’t slow things down.
If anything, it sharpened them.
The album was still moving — not surging, not fading — holding its place with a kind of stubborn confidence that surprised everyone who had predicted a quick peak. Songs were settling into routines: late drives, shared playlists, background noise that people realised too late they’d memorised.
And the movie’s IP was everywhere.
Not loudly. Not cheaply. It slipped into conversations about licensing, export, design. Luxury lines asking careful questions. Manufacturing timelines tightening. Creative approvals moving faster than anyone expected.
Success without panic.
That was new.
Claire sat at the edge of a long table cluttered with schedules and coffee cups, her jacket draped over the back of a chair. Her phone buzzed with reminders she didn’t need — interviews done, photos approved, another short appearance logged and cleared.
Imogen dropped into the seat opposite her, exhaling. “If anyone asks me what genre we are one more time, I’m going to start making things up.”
Claire laughed. “You already do.”
“True,” Imogen admitted. “But now they’re writing it down.”
Across the room, Lucas was half-listening to a call, half-laughing at something one of the twins had said. The twins were everywhere lately — bouncing between fittings, meetings, location scouts — riding the speed of how quickly things could move when doors were already open.
“Did you see the numbers?” one of them said, leaning over the table. “They’re still holding.”
“And the film merch requests?” the other added. “Not toys. Actual design inquiries.”
Claire shook her head, smiling. “That still feels unreal.”
Lucas ended his call and dropped his phone face-down. “Unreal, but real enough to steal all our time.”
Imogen grinned. “Worth it.”
The air felt lighter than it had in weeks. Busy, yes — but not strained. They moved between obligations with practiced ease now, joking in elevators, sharing snacks between fittings, making plans they might not keep just because it felt good to make them.
Someone mentioned the industry Halloween gathering — not as a warning, not as a thrill. Just… upcoming.
“Are we excited?” Imogen asked, eyebrows raised.
“Curious,” Claire said after a moment.
Lucas smiled. “Prepared.”
The twins exchanged a look that said both.
Halloween carried its own weight in the industry. Not the costumes — the timing. The last push before everything slowed. Before winter schedules hardened. Before the year began to close its hands around what had worked and what hadn’t.
After Halloween, things cooled.
Before it, everything tested itself.
Claire leaned back, stretching her arms, watching the room full of people she trusted — tired, laughing, moving with purpose.
“I like this part,” she said quietly.
Imogen glanced at her. “Which part?”
“The part where we’re busy,” Claire replied. “And it still feels fun.”
They sat with that for a moment.
Outside, October deepened. The city shifted toward night. Somewhere ahead waited a room full of eyes and unspoken assessments.
But not yet.
For now, there was momentum. Laughter. Work that felt worth doing.
And the quiet knowledge that something was coming —
not ominous, not inevitable —
just waiting for the doors to open.
The Email Read
You’re invited to a private, industry-only evening bringing together a small circle of artists, creatives, and senior industry figures.
This is a closed gathering.
It is not a public event, not a branded celebration, and not associated with any open Halloween activity.
The intention is simple: a quiet, considered moment for the industry to connect, exchange ideas, and mark the season thoughtfully.
Please note:
Attendance is strictly by invitation only
No public promotion, ticketing, or guest amplification
Photography is welcome sparingly and personally (no crowd imagery, no real-time posting)
Arrival times are staggered, with guest numbers intentionally limited
The tone is creative and celebratory, while remaining low-profile and respectful
Details regarding location and timing will be shared privately.
Styling & Atmosphere (Optional)
For those who wish to participate visually, styling is entirely optional.
The evening leans toward:
modern reinterpretation
conceptual or abstract expression
tailored, editorial, or silhouette-driven looks
Literal costumes or character cosplay are not expected. Individual expression is welcomed within a thoughtful, understated atmosphere.
A Note from Lou & MAX
We’ve got this covered.
Modern / conceptual / abstract can go quite far — as long as it stays intentional rather than theatrical.
Think:
fashion as concept
mood over character
silhouette, restraint, or a single strong idea
If it feels like something you’d see in an editorial, a gallery, or a quiet room — it works.
If it turns into spectacle, props, or requires explanation — it’s probably too much.
Trust your instincts.
Subtle always lands stronger in rooms like this.
The party was already in motion by the time Claire arrived.
Not loud—not yet—but humming with that particular energy only industry rooms carried: people pretending not to scan entrances, pretending not to catalogue who was speaking to whom. The kind of evening where everyone claimed to be relaxed and no one actually was.
Lou moved ahead of the group, greeting hosts, exchanging the kind of smiles that carried years of mutual assessment. Max drifted in the opposite direction, immediately absorbed by conversations about manufacturing timelines and luxury placements. The Starlight Shadows name followed him like a credential.
Claire lingered just inside the doorway for a moment.
The room was beautiful in a restrained way—low lighting, dark wood, glass, soft music that never quite took center stage. No costumes. No spectacle. Halloween reduced to mood rather than theme.
She exhaled slowly.
Weeks ago, this would have felt overwhelming.
Tonight, it felt… earned.
She moved through clusters of conversation with ease, nodding, smiling, accepting congratulations without letting them harden into expectation. She was aware—keenly—of being watched, but it wasn’t the sharp scrutiny of earlier months.
This was appraisal.
And appraisal was survivable.
Absence
Evan wasn’t there.
She hadn’t expected him to be—not really. The weather alone made it unlikely. Snow delays across half of Europe, ripple effects through Asia-Pacific routes. The kind of logistical chaos that didn’t care about timing or longing.
Still, she found herself glancing at the entrance more often than necessary.
Just checking.
Just habit.
Strike appeared near the bar, already mid-conversation with someone senior enough not to need an introduction. He caught Claire’s eye and lifted his glass slightly—approval, solidarity, something warmer than either.
“Good night for it,” he said when she joined him.
“For what?” Claire asked.
“For being seen without having to perform,” Strike replied.
She smiled. “I already performed.”
“Yes,” he said. “And now you’re here. That’s different.”
The Stage, Revisited
When Claire was asked to sing later in the evening, it wasn’t framed as a centerpiece.
No announcement. No hush forced on the room.
Just a quiet recalibration, like gravity shifting.
She stepped into the space with the confidence of someone who no longer needed to prove she belonged there. The song—her solo—floated rather than landed. Intimate. Controlled. A pause rather than a proclamation.
The room listened.
Not rapt.
Attentive.
Which was better.
As she finished, the applause came naturally—warm, brief, respectful. The kind that acknowledged without claiming ownership.
Claire stepped back into the crowd, heart steady.
And that’s when she felt it.
A presence.
Not loud. Not announced.
Familiar.
Arrival
Evan stood just inside the entrance, coat still on, hair damp from rain, eyes already locked on her.
Claire’s breath caught—just a fraction.
You made it.
Their gaze held across the room, the way it always did when words felt unnecessary. Weeks of distance compressed into a single look: relief, pride, mischief, restraint.
Evan didn’t approach immediately.
He knew better.
Instead, he let the moment stretch—watching her talk to someone, watching her laugh at something said too quietly for him to hear. He took in the ease in her posture, the way she carried herself now.
She looked… settled.
And that did something to him.
When they finally met near the edge of the room, it was casual on the surface.
“Nice entrance,” Claire said lightly. “Very dramatic.”
Evan grinned. “Snowed in. Missed a connection. Ran the last block.”
“Of course you did.”
He leaned closer, voice low. “You were worth it.”
Her smile turned dangerous. “Careful. People are watching.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s half the fun.”
Eyes, Everywhere
They didn’t cling to each other. That would have been obvious.
Instead, they orbited.
A look across the room.
A brush of fingers when passing.
A shared smile at something absurd said by someone important.
Industry eyes flicked between them—not accusatory, just curious. Calculating.
Lou noticed. Of course she did.
She caught Claire’s eye once, raised an eyebrow—not warning, not approval. Just acknowledgment.
Be smart.
Claire was.
Mostly.
Pressure Points
Max returned from a conversation looking amused and irritated in equal measure.
“Everyone wants a piece,” he muttered. “No one wants to admit they’re late.”
“Welcome to success,” Evan said dryly.
Nearby, a rival executive laughed a little too loudly at something Mara said.
Claire stiffened—not visibly, but internally.
Mara looked different tonight. Calmer. Sharper. Aligned with people she hadn’t stood beside before.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
That, somehow, was worse.
Strike leaned in at one point, voice low. “Be careful tonight. Not because of danger. Because of opportunity.”
Claire nodded. “Same thing here.”
Almost Alone
Later—much later—they found a quiet corner near a balcony door, the cold seeping in around the edges.
Evan studied her openly now. “You were incredible.”
She rolled her eyes. “You always say that.”
“Because you always are.”
She hesitated, then admitted softly, “I kept thinking you wouldn’t make it.”
“I almost didn’t,” he said. “But I couldn’t stand the idea of watching this from somewhere else.”
Her expression softened. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
“So have you,” he replied.
They stood there, close enough now that the space between them felt intentional.
Weeks of missed calls.
Different time zones.
Careers accelerating in parallel lines.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
Claire nodded. “I think so. It’s just… a lot.”
Evan smiled, gentle. “That’s a good place to be.”
She looked up at him, eyes bright. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Because you’re still you in it.”
The Room Tightens
Across the room, conversations shifted.
Offers hinted.
Rumors floated.
Alliances tested the edges.
This wasn’t a party anymore.
It was a proving ground.
Claire felt it—and felt Evan feel it too.
“Stay,” she said softly. Not a command. Not a plea.
“I am,” he replied. “For as long as I can.”
That was enough.
For tonight.
Closing
As the night edged toward its end, the room didn’t explode—it resolved. People left with thoughts rather than conclusions. With plans rather than answers.
Claire and Evan stood side by side as coats were collected, snow still falling outside.
Halloween loomed.
Then winter.
Then quiet.
For now, the industry watched.
And Claire—grounded, steady, no longer alone—met its gaze without blinking.
The room had teeth.
But so did she.
And this time, she wasn’t facing it by herself.
The Infinity Line party didn’t end so much as it thinned out.
People drifted instead of departed. Conversations lost their sharpness. The room exhaled. By the time someone suggested a last drink, half the guests were already checking flights, rides, or the quiet pull of home.
Jet lag won.
Evan slipped out without ceremony, coat over his arm, phone buzzing with messages he ignored until he reached the lift. By the time he got upstairs, the city had settled into that late-night calm where even traffic sounded considerate.
His apartment lights were still off.
He smiled to himself.
Downstairs, the restaurant at the base of the complex was already half-closed — chairs stacked, staff relaxed, a few familiar faces lingering because no one wanted the night to end abruptly. Evan waved the group in anyway. They knew him here.
“Kitchen’s still open,” someone called. “Barely.”
“Perfect,” Evan said. “We’re barely functional.”
They filled a corner table with tired laughter and loosened jackets. No industry talk. No post-mortems. Just food arriving in uneven waves and stories told badly on purpose.
Lucas peeled off early, already half-asleep standing up. The twins followed soon after, arguing quietly about something unimportant and refusing to settle it. Strike Toplin clapped Evan on the shoulder and promised a call that would probably happen sometime next week.
One by one, the guys disappeared into the night.
By the time Claire and Imogen rode the lift upstairs with Evan, the building felt almost silent.
Home
The apartment door opened to warmth.
And judgment.
Loushii sat squarely in the middle of the living room rug, tail tucked neatly around her paws, eyes wide and unblinking.
Claire froze. “She’s staring like we’re late.”
Imogen whispered, “We are late.”
Eli emerged from the kitchen with a mug in hand, hair a mess, smile easy. “You woke her.”
Loushii did not blink.
“She hasn’t moved in hours,” Eli added. “Just waited.”
Evan crouched immediately. “Hey, commander.”
Loushii stood, stretched with deliberate slowness, then walked past him without acknowledgment.
Claire laughed. “Cold.”
“She’s very clear about boundaries,” Eli said. “Especially after midnight.”
They kicked off shoes, jackets abandoned wherever they landed. The apartment filled with the kind of post-event energy that wasn’t wired anymore — just spent.
Imogen dropped onto the couch. “I can’t believe that’s over.”
Claire leaned back against the counter. “I can’t believe we survived it.”
Evan glanced at her, smile soft. “You didn’t just survive. You were… good. Solid.”
She met his eyes. Weeks apart dissolved into something familiar and warm.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “So were you.”
The Aftermath
They talked in fragments.
The party without rehashing it.
People without naming them.
Moments that were funny only because they’d already passed.
Eli passed around leftover dessert like it was contraband. Loushii eventually reclaimed her spot — this time on the arm of the couch, close enough to supervise everyone at once.
“She’s making sure we don’t spiral,” Imogen said.
“She’s making sure you don’t,” Eli replied.
Laughter softened into yawns.
Outside, the city felt done for the night.
Evan leaned back, arms resting behind him, watching the room: Claire curled slightly inward on the couch, Imogen half-asleep but still listening, Eli content in the background, Loushii ruling silently.
This was the other side of momentum.
Not applause.
Not strategy.
Just the quiet relief of being home.
“Halloween’s done,” Imogen murmured. “Now everything slows, right?”
Evan nodded. “For a bit.”
Claire smiled, eyes closing. “Good.”
The apartment settled around them, holding the moment gently.
No industry.
No pressure.
No rooms with teeth.
Just tired people, shared space, and a cat who had decided — finally — that they were forgiven.
For now, that was more than enough.
Evan couldn’t quite believe he’d made it.
Not just the party — home. The lift ride alone had felt like a victory lap. He pictured his own apartment as he stepped inside Claire’s place: jacket still draped over a chair where he’d dropped it weeks ago, an open suitcase he never quite finished repacking, the faint smell of coffee he’d meant to throw out before leaving.
A mess, but a familiar one.
He smiled to himself.
Worth it.
Claire’s apartment was quieter. Softer. Everything had a place, even if that place wasn’t always obeyed. Shoes by the door, light half on, the echo of laughter still hanging in the air from earlier.
And then there was Loushii.
Evan had grown up around animals. Dogs mostly. Loyal, enthusiastic, emotionally transparent. He adored them. Trusted them.
This cat was… different.
Loushii sat upright, tail wrapped neatly, eyes fixed on him with the kind of attention that suggested she knew things. Personal things. Thoughts he hadn’t even finished forming.
She’s judging me, he thought.
Loushii blinked once.
Yeah. Definitely judging.
Evan suppressed a laugh and slipped off his shoes quietly, glancing toward the bedroom where Claire was moving around, humming to herself, relaxed in that way that only happened when the day was finally done.
She looked good. Not dressed up — just herself. And that made something warm settle in his chest.
Okay, he thought. Be smooth. Be respectful. Don’t make this weird.
He considered his options.
Option one: go back to his apartment alone, face the chaos, sleep in a bed that smelled faintly of airports, then come back tomorrow like a normal person.
Option two: somehow, gracefully, casually, suggest that Claire come with him. Grab a few things. Stay over. No pressure. No pitch deck.
Just… together.
He glanced at Loushii again.
The cat’s gaze sharpened.
I’m not trying anything, Evan thought defensively. I’m being considerate.
Loushii did not look convinced.
Evan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, pretending this was all very simple.
“Hey,” he said lightly, when Claire looked up. “My place is… kind of a disaster. I left in a rush.”
She smiled. “I figured.”
“I was thinking,” he continued, carefully casual, “I could grab a few things. And maybe—” he hesitated just long enough to be human, “—you could come over. If you want. No expectations. Just… less back and forth.”
Claire studied him for a moment, eyes amused.
Loushii’s tail flicked.
This was it. This was the trial.
Claire smiled wider. “That sounds… very reasonable.”
Evan exhaled, relief blooming into something brighter. “Great. I’m excellent at reasonable.”
Loushii stood, stretched, and hopped down from her perch, walking between them like she was inspecting the terms of the agreement.
“Is she coming too?” Evan asked.
Claire laughed. “She’s deciding.”
Loushii stopped in front of Evan, looked up at him, and held his gaze.
He raised his hands in surrender. “I respect your authority.”
The cat turned away.
Claire shook her head, still smiling. “I think that means yes.”
Evan grinned, warmth spreading through him.
He’d made it home.
He’d made it in time.
And somehow, against all odds, he’d passed the cat.
All in all, a very good night.