Apex Prism — The Morning After
The building felt heavier than usual — heat from the mirrored windows pressing over polished floors and gossip that hummed louder than the rehearsal monitors. The glow from the night before had worn off somewhere between the lobby and the eighth floor.
The girls arrived early; their shoes squeaked against scuffed tiles as the smell of hairspray and coffee mingled in the corridors. No silent executive floor here — just stylists with rollers hanging like trophies, makeup artists trading jokes, and managers pretending not to eavesdrop.
Claire and Imogen signed into the rehearsal bay, already aware eyes were following them.
“Feels different today,” Imogen murmured, tightening her hoodie strings.
“It’s the looks,” Claire replied quietly. “Half of them were laughing last week.”
At the opposite end of the hallway, Neon Pulse filtered in — carrying the faint tension of their own. Ji‑yeon looked immaculate even without stage makeup, lips tinted, posture too perfect for morning. She greeted the staff with graceful politeness, but the smirk didn’t reach her eyes. Beside her, Skye and Hana kept to safe small talk.
“Long night?” one of the older makeup artists asked, teasing.
“Some had a longer one than others,” Ji‑yeon said lightly, eyes flicking toward Claire and Imogen. “I guess being friendly with producers pays.” It was delivered as a joke, effortless, harmless on the surface — but the little ripple that passed through the room was immediate.
On another bench, two stylists whispered — something about overseas girls and fast friendships. Married women with disapproving smiles, empowered by gossip.
Mara’s reflection appeared briefly in the open glass of the door, pausing on her way past with coffee in hand and quiet satisfaction in her expression. She didn’t have to say a word; Ji‑yeon caught her glance and almost visibly straightened, encouraged.
“You hear about Evan?” Ji‑yeon continued casually as she brushed loose powder off her sleeve. “He used to avoid parties altogether, now look at him — practically serenading her in public. Cute, if that’s your type.”
Lumi glanced up from her phone. “Maybe he actually likes her,” she said easily. “Not everything’s strategy.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Ji‑yeon replied, voice dipped in honey. “Everything’s strategy here.”
The room fell quiet long enough to make the message linger.
Claire caught Imogen’s eyes in the vanity mirror — that mutual, tired little look they shared when they didn’t have words for the moment. So this is how it starts, she thought. Not shouting. Just slow division — jealousy dressed as concern.
By midmorning, rumors of “connections” had already reached the tech crew on the eleventh floor. Somewhere, laughter called it typical idol behavior. Others repeated it with knowing shrugs.
Mara passed through again closer to lunch, pretending not to notice the shift she’d caused — offering approval disguised as care. “Keep your heads down, girls,” she said sweetly. “Eyes forward, and the right people always notice.”
Her smile was pure PR polish. Her timing, immaculate.
As she disappeared into the stairwell that led to the hidden thirteenth floor, Imogen muttered under her breath, “Conquer and divide, right?”
“Exactly,” Claire said, straightening her water bottle on the counter like armor. “And she’s just getting started.”
Apex Prism — Cafeteria Noon Haze
Lunch hour in the trainee cafeteria buzzed like a beehive — trays clattering, conversations looping between tired laughter and whispered compared schedules. The air smelled of noodle broth, disinfectant, and ambition.
Claire found an empty table tucked beneath a row of buzzing lights. Imogen slid into the seat beside her, pulling a hair tie from her wrist, while Lumi arrived seconds later, balancing a bowl and a wide grin.
“You two need to sit closer to the window next time,” Lumi said brightly. “Better lighting. Even gossip looks better in daylight.”
Claire laughed. “So we are gossiping?”
“Always,” Lumi replied with zero hesitation. “This building survives on caffeine and rumors.”
A table over, a few Neon Pulse members were deep in talk; Ji‑yeon’s polished laughter carried just far enough to sound rehearsed. The trainees whispered names of other idols they thought they glimpsed, keeping their voices low.
A pair of male trainees strolled by, all swagger and perfume, testing their luck.
“Mind if we—” one started.
“You can mind your food,” Lumi interrupted sweetly, flashing her most disarming smile. “Company policy says mixed lunch tables equal work distractions.”
The boys retreated in good humor, taking the hint.
“You do that well,” Claire said.
“It’s an art form,” Lumi replied. “Flirtation judo. Redirect energy, keep the peace.”
Imogen twirled her noodles, eyes flicking around the room. “Do you ever see the famous ones down here?”
“Not usually,” Lumi said. “The big names eat on the executive side. We’re the charm school wing — the unknowns.”
“I’ve seen Jalen around,” Imogen said thoughtfully. “But I think that’s only because the studio’s close to here. J Min’s the only one I really talk to — we banter. I used to teach him English for trainee money, back when extra lessons were a thing.” She smiled faintly. “He calls me his vocabulary coach. Says he’s definitely marrying someone with an overseas visa one day.”
“So, what, green‑card romance?” Lumi teased.
Imogen laughed. “We debate more than flirt. He doesn’t see me like that. Age gap thing.” She shrugged.
The humor softened when she added quietly, “If you’re feeling weird vibes from Ji‑yeon, you’re not imagining it. She’s… complicated. Used to chase Evan. Thought she could win him over with money and connections. He knew what that was about, and it crushed him. He said everyone wanted him for the wrong reasons. After that, he just kept close to the band, no one else.”
The words sank gently between them; even Lumi, who never stopped moving, sat still for a heartbeat.
“That explains a lot,” Claire murmured.
“Yeah,” Lumi said. “That, and Mara’s magic.”
“Magic?” Imogen asked.
“PR magic,” Lumi replied, tone lowering. “She’s the one who repackages people. Told us she could make Neon Pulse shine. To be fair, she delivered visibility, but she promises more than she can give. Half the staff treat her like gospel; the rest keep their heads down. She can make or break you here.”
Claire frowned. “So she brought the group together?”
“Oh, no,” Lumi said, shaking her head. “That was all Skye. Mara just attached herself later — claimed credit when it suited her. You’ll see. She keeps the teams guessing, keeps everyone divided just enough so nobody compares notes.”
“That’s… efficient,” Imogen said, sarcastic but thoughtful.
“Efficient and destructive,” Lumi said quietly. “Skye swore she wouldn’t let what happened to Soeun — or Jae‑Ah — repeat itself.”
Claire realized both older girls had fallen silent then, eyes trained on their food. The topic wasn’t taboo exactly, but something sacred — the name spoken carefully like a ghost.
“Different times,” Lumi added brightly after a moment, flipping the mood back. “Anyway, rumor detox over — tell me someone has snacks.”
Imogen tossed her a wrapped biscuit. They shared a grin — easy, youthful, defiant against all invisible politics.
The noise of the cafeteria swelled again: laughter, arguments, a staff member calling out tray returns. Over at the stylists’ table, Ji‑yeon’s polished tone rose once more — her laugh too perfect, her glance sliding toward them just a little too long.
Claire noticed but said nothing. Instead, she met Imogen’s eyes across the table. Both girls smiled, the silent kind that meant we see you, we’re standing together this time.
Apex Prism — Afternoon Practice
The bass bounced off glass and timber; the studio smelled of coffee and motion. Skye counted the beat sharp, Hana hitting each spin right behind her, Lumi’s quick pace lighting the rhythm. Claire and Imogen filled the edge spots, moving easily within the five‑girl formation that would headline their promo sequence — a bright, catchy Seventeen‑style number picked for television charm and easy choreography.
The walls quivered with sound from the neighboring room — Lucid’s rehearsal band, warm‑ups bleeding through the vents. It wasn’t soundproof, not on this floor. Every thump of Dominic’s bassline or Uriel’s snare syncopation rode the edges of the girls’ music.
“It’s weird,” Lumi said, panting mid‑break. “You can always tell when they’re next door. Rhythms almost line up, like we’re in one long, messy collaboration.”
“It looks good from outside too,” Hana replied, stripping off her sweatshirt. “Five girls, three guys. Balanced visuals. PR would eat it up.”
“That’s the plan,” Skye said, smiling wryly. “Get them used to seeing us together before the promo circuit overseas.”
While she gave notes, the practice room door opened. Evan wasn’t there — instead, his manager, arms straining under a tray of condensation‑frosted cups, popped his head in.
“Delivery for the Prism dancers,” he called. “Compliments of the thirteenth floor.”
The announcement pulled chatter up short. Everyone looked up — the thirteenth floor carried weight in this building, even if half of them had never seen it.
“Brought some variety — water, iced teas, juices,” the man said. “Courtesy of last night’s crew, I’m told— thought you’d be needing something cold.”
He didn’t explain further, just dropped the tray by the benches and ducked out again.
Laughter resumed, voices overlapping in grateful thanks. The cups glittered under the light — mango, citrus, apple, strawberry.
“They’re spoiling us,” Lumi joked, unsnapping a straw.
Ji‑yeon drifted closer, her voice soft, teasing: “Which one’s strawberry‑apple?”
“Two,” came a reply from Skye without looking.
Ji‑yeon picked one up delicately, smile painted in practiced innocence. “He always remembers,” she said sweetly, twisting the straw between her fingers. “Evan used to bring me this all the time when he wanted to surprise me.”
The syllables landed precisely where she wanted them to.
Claire’s breath caught — tiny, mechanical — as her hand hovered above the remaining cup. The mirrors caught the small motion; it was enough.
“Take it,” Lumi said quickly, breezy but purposeful. “You’ve been sweating through three rounds; reward yourself.”
“Thanks.” Claire’s bright tone almost passed for natural.
Skye clapped to resume. “All right, reset from chorus!”
They moved again, bodies syncing to the beat, but the air wasn’t the same. The mirrors reflected polished choreography and strained smiles. Ji‑yeon’s smirk flickered when Claire missed a count.
Uriel’s drumming from next door bled louder — a convenient percussion for rising friction. Dominic appeared briefly at the doorway, offering a thumbs‑up before disappearing again.
“Focus!” Skye called.
Hana caught Claire’s glance, murmuring between takes, “Ignore her. She thrives on flashbacks, not progress.”
Claire nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
But Ji‑yeon’s humming carried easily through the end of rehearsal — light, contented, just out of sync with the track.
By the final count, everyone looked polished but drained — the perfect mask Apex Prism required.
From the hallway, footsteps echoed — likely one of Lucid’s guys retrieving a guitar left behind. The door stayed half‑open as the girls collected their bags, voices quieter now, their laughter forced but friendly.
If Mara had been there to watch, she would have smiled — perfect discord wrapped in studio harmony.
Lucid Practice Room — After Hours
The building had emptied into its evening hush — just the low hum of the vending machines and the flick of fluorescent lights over scuffed floors. Neon Pulse had already vanished with chatter trailing down the corridor, their perfume fading as the doors clicked shut behind them.
Claire and Imogen lingered by the water cooler, the echo of the day still on their shoulders. Through the thin wall they could hear Lucas’s guitar tuning, Dominic’s low hum of an amp clicking on, Uriel tapping his sticks against his leg in sync.
“They didn’t leave yet?” Claire asked.
Imogen smiled, already knowing. “They never do.”
When they stepped inside, the smell of dust and wood warmed the air. Lucas looked up first, grin lazy. “Thought you’d ditched us for the divas,” he teased.
“We almost did,” Claire said, propping her guitar case on the stool. “Until someone decided we still had to earn our keep.”
“I was thinking,” Uriel called from behind the drum kit, “before we all bail — one song. Something easy. Clear our heads.”
“You mean that song,” Dominic said, plucking strings until the familiar first note sang.
The girls exchanged looks that needed no words. They knew the one — the track they’d jammed a hundred times back when Lucid was still learning to breathe as a band, the one they’d played between movie set rehearsals to kill time and remind themselves why they loved the work. A tempo that felt like freedom — mid‑speed, infectious, with a chorus that refused to be unhappy.
Lucas started softly, fingers sliding over chords that felt like memories. Dominic locked in on bass, Uriel adding a bright snare beat. Claire slipped the guitar strap over her shoulder, joining harmony with a clear, steady tone.
Imogen caught the rhythm a beat later, smiling as the tension she’d been carrying since morning melted into motion. By the second verse, her voice had joined Claire’s — two different textures folding together in unguarded joy.
“We still sound like a band,” Uriel said between fills.
“We are a band,” Lucas shot back. “We just forgot for a week.”
Laughter spilled over the chorus. Claire tilted her head toward Lucas, harmonizing with him, while Imogen’s bass rolled underneath like heartbeat. The lyrics wove around the idea of starting again — nothing poetic, just perfectly true.
Outside, faint footsteps echoed up the stairs, but no one noticed. The practice light caught in the dust motes; every strum painted a piece of calm back into the day.
When the bridge hit, Lucas leaned toward Imogen, teasing through melody — a call‑and‑response they’d built months ago. She met it with a grin and a single run of notes that landed exactly where his chord resolved.
Dominic whooped softly. “Textbook chemistry.”
“Don’t ruin it,” Claire said, laughing, hair falling into her eyes as she launched into the final chord.
The last chord hung in the air a moment too long — a gently ringing note that seemed to stretch forever. Claire swayed with it, hair caught in the slow draft of the fan, before lowering her guitar and glancing up with a grin.
Then the sound of clapping burst from the stairwell.
Three figures leaned halfway over the railing — J Min, Jalen, and Evan, faces split in wide smiles, hands thundering against metal rails.
“Encore!” Jalen shouted, voice echoing off the walls. “That was criminally good! Do you guys take requests?”
Imogen jumped, laughing, clutching her bass to her chest. “Seriously? How long have you been there?”
“Since halfway through the second verse,” Evan called down. “We were going to leave, but this was better than dinner.”
“You could’ve joined in,” Lucas said, strumming a teasing chord.
“Oh, we didn’t want to ruin the vibe,” J Min said, pretending seriousness. “Plus, you looked like an emotional reunion of Infinity Life.”
Uriel groaned from the drums. “Don’t you dare start that!”
“Come on,” Jalen teased, leaning farther over the railing. “Tell me you don’t know it — Infinity Life! Early‑era ballad kings! You all would nail that big chorus.”
Dominic coughed in mock offence. “We have standards, thank you.”
“Lies,” Claire said, laughing, her fingers already testing a chord. “You mean this one?” She strummed the first line of the melody everyone born within a decade knew instantly — that shameless pop crowd‑pleaser people pretended to dislike but secretly loved.
The stairwell erupted in whoops.
“That’s it! That’s the one!” Jalen yelled. “Sing it like your rent depends on it!”
Lucas rolled his eyes, then couldn’t resist; the others fell in. The volume doubled, claps syncopated, the whole building suddenly alive again. Even Evan joined from the stairs, harmonizing loudly enough to make them all crack up mid‑verse.
When they hit the chorus, everyone — upstairs, downstairs, and in‑between — was shouting the words, badly and joyfully.
The laughter afterward came in waves, leaving them all grinning breathless and unguarded.
“This floor’s going to hate us tomorrow,” Dominic said, wiping his face with a towel.
“Worth it,” Claire said, tucking her guitar away.
Evan called down again. “Next time we bring snacks and proper mics.”
“Next time,” Lucas echoed, nodding.
The stairwell went quiet but stayed warm, filled with that particular afterglow only music makes.
Imogen smiled up at them. “You guys are impossible.”
“We try,” Jalen said proudly.
“Don’t ever stop,” Claire added, her laughter still caught between notes.
The five from Lucid and the three from Infinity Line lingered like that for a moment — divided by the railing yet completely in tune, their laughter carrying up through the open stairwell like applause that didn’t know when to quit.
Aurion Heights — A Dinner Invitation
The echoes of laughter were still fading when Jalen leaned over the stair rail, grinning ear to ear. “All right, enough crowd‑pleasing from the balcony,” he said, patting his stomach. “How about we continue this where there’s actual food? My place upstairs — private dining room, best thing in Orion Heights. I’m cooking.”
“You cook?” Dominic asked, dubious.
“Own the restaurant, thank you very much,” Jalen replied with theatrical flair. “Best perk of being the youngest — I still believe in hobbies.”
“What’s the catch?” Claire teased, slinging her guitar bag over her shoulder.
“No catch. My treat,” Jalen said, shrugging. “Call it a peace offering for last night’s bad vibes.”
Lucas gave an exaggerated groan. “You realize that’s the first time anyone in this company has said my treat and actually meant it?”
“You can thank me later,” Jalen said. “Also, thanks for the drinks earlier. That was you guys, right?”
Uriel raised a brow. “Not us. You think we’d remember to hydrate people?”
“Had to be Infinity Line,” Claire said with a small smile. “The manager said they came from the thirteenth floor.”
“Ah, that tracks,” Jalen said, mock‑grimacing. “I heard JR’s got the hangover of the century today. Smiled through a full press meeting like a zombie. Lucas, surprisingly, looks like he still has a pulse.”
“Barely,” Lucas admitted, rake‑grinning. “Recovery smoothies and denial. Works wonders.”
Imogen rolled her eyes, exchanging a knowing look with Claire. “And yet he still found enough energy to play our song.”
“Couldn’t let you carry the show alone,” Lucas said, sliding the line in smooth as ever.
“You two should work it out in a lyrics battle,” Jalen cut in with a smirk, catching the tension but keeping things playful. “Maybe over dessert. The acoustics in my restaurant are great.”
“And let you steal our spotlight?” Claire said. “Not happening.”
“We’ll risk it,” Evan added, appearing at the stair landing beside J Min. He nodded toward Claire. “Besides, we owe you both an apology for how awkward that night got. Dinner sounds… perfect.”
Jalen flexed both arms dramatically. “Look at that — the cross‑group diplomacy plan works already.”
“You just want an excuse to show off your cooking,” J Min said.
“Exactly,” Jalen admitted. “And if Lumi’s free, tell her she’s missing the best steak in Seoul.”
“She’ll regret it when we post photos,” Claire teased.
As they started up the stairs together, the hall lights flickered into evening. Their laughter echoed against the metal railings, warm and unguarded, the mood so much lighter than the one they’d left behind the night before.
For Imogen, it felt like old rhythm restored — Lucas joking with Jalen instead of sparring; Evan walking beside Claire, his presence quiet, familiar. Even Dominic and Uriel traded quips about who was washing dishes if the food turned out awful.
“No drinks this time,” Jalen warned as the elevator doors opened. “Just food, caffeine, and friendship contracts.”
“We’ll believe that when we see it,” Lucas said, but he was smiling.
They stepped inside together, the doors sliding shut behind them — a small, noisy knot of voices and laughter, heading for warmth, forgiveness, and maybe, finally, a night that ended without regrets.
Orion Heights — Private Dining Room
The restaurant’s main foyer glowed elegant and empty after hours, save for the soft hum of the fountain and the sound of Jalen’s laughter spilling from the private dining room. Inside, the lights were warmer — amber reflections against glass and chrome, the little in‑house kitchen fully alive. Steam rose from a wok as Jalen tossed noodles through with effortless flair.
“I’ve definitely seen this backdrop before,” Dominic said, inspecting the setup. “There are cooking channels online filmed right here — same brick wall, same marble counter. It’s like déjà vu.”
Jalen smirked. “Caught me. I rent the space out sometimes. Got a sponsorship deal last year. Needs views to fund my spice addiction.”
Uriel laughed into his drink. “So, dinner and influencer networking — two for one.”
Imogen took a bite of spring roll and nodded approvingly. “Worth the hype, though. You’ve outcooked the cafeteria by a mile.”
“Low bar,” Claire teased.
“Still counts,” he said, tapping the wok with his ladle for punctuation. “And tonight, it’s all on the house. No management oversight, no Mara, no thirteenth‑floor directives. Just us.”
Lucas poured himself water, leaning back. “You sure about that? Gossip travels faster than your Wi‑Fi in this building. I bet by tomorrow, someone will think this is a press dinner.”
“Please,” J Min countered. “Half the company already blames Mara for every rumor that moves between floors. It’s practically part of her job description now. Damage control and well‑timed distraction.”
Evan, leaning against the counter, nodded. “The drinks from earlier today were her doing — or at least her approval. It’s what she’s paid for: make everyone look cooperative.”
“I’ll drink to cooperation,” Uriel said, lifting his glass. “Just not too much this time.”
“No hangovers tonight,” Jalen declared. “We’ve got recording at dawn. I’d rather not die mid‑chord.”
Claire smiled over her plate. “At least the energy’s good again. Whatever went on yesterday feels like it’s cooling off.”
“Rumors are dying down,” J Min agreed. “Mara got her narrative under control, and JR did his part. Press conference went clean, board signed off — Soeun’s getting a three‑part digital release deal.”
Imogen’s interest sparked. “Really? That soon?”
“Three‑month rollout. First track drops next quarter,” Jalen said, setting his ladle aside. “JR pitched it hard in the meeting. Guess all that late‑night karaoke coverage didn’t ruin him after all.”
Claire grinned. “Talent outweighs scandal.”
“Depends who writes the headlines,” Lucas said lazily, but his smile held no bite.
The conversation mellowed into company talk — talent rotations, budget rumors, promotion chatter. It was equal parts celebration and quiet strategy, the kind of meal bands used to anchor each other in the middle of chaos.
“So it’s true,” Dominic said between bites. “If the company thinks you’re worth a return, they make sure it happens.”
“It’s investment,” J Min said. “They nurture what pays back. Loyalty works both ways — at least on a good day.”
Jalen slid into a seat at last, wiping his hands on a cloth and catching Imogen’s eye. “Speaking of loyalty, I had an idea — something solo. I’ve been composing on the side. Would you ever want to collaborate?”
Imogen blinked, mid‑sip. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he said, grin easy but eyes sincere. “Nothing for public ears yet. Wouldn’t release it until after the promo tour anyway. We’d need approval, obviously — and I’m not about to step on Lucas’s territory. I just thought maybe…”
“You mean if it made it through the board,” Evan said carefully. “They can be picky with side projects.”
“And it wouldn’t, if Lucas objects,” Dominic added. “You know who whispers to the board through PR channels.”
Jalen raised his palms. “Hence the ‘just an idea.’ Don’t worry — I’m not starting a cold war over a melody.”
Imogen smiled, pragmatic but touched. “We’ll talk after the premiere. Contracts are strict until then. Once that embargo’s cleared, we’ll see what’s possible.”
“Fair,” Jalen said, leaning back. “I like possible.”
Their laughter filled the private dining room again, this time softer — bonded by shared exhaustion, mutual admiration, and the sense that, for a few hours at least, they were just young artists eating noodles in a hotel kitchen, not pieces in Mara’s cautious PR puzzle.
Lucas’s phone buzzed mid‑joke. He checked the message, expression flickering unreadable, then pushed his chair back. “Sorry, work call,” he said lightly. “Don’t wait up.”
The door closed quietly behind him. Conversation resumed, thinner but still bright.
Claire exchanged a quick look with Imogen — half understanding, half fatigue. Jalen caught it too, exhaling. “He’ll be fine,” he said. “Probably Mara checking attendance.”
“Probably,” Imogen echoed softly, eyes on the door.
After a few more jokes and one last plate of dumplings, Jalen started gathering dishes. “No more drinks, no regrets, everyone out before midnight. Orion Heights closes on good memories only.”
“You’re the best host,” Claire said, standing to help.
“And the worst dishwasher,” Dominic muttered.
Laughter rolled again. Chairs scraped, goodbyes echoed up the marble foyer. The group drifted toward the elevators, full and easy, voices fading into hums of leftover tunes.
Outside, Orion Heights glowed against the skyline — a calm between storms, where rivalries, gossip, and ambition slept a few hours before the next act began.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. The group piled in — half yawning, half laughing — the day’s noise finally softening into a sleepy hush. Reflections caught smiles bouncing off the mirrored walls; even after dinner, everyone still hummed fragments of the song they’d jammed earlier.
Lucas stood near the buttons, gaze distant, already in manager mode again. Jalen joked about dessert portions; Dominic and Uriel argued play‑by‑play about who hit the wrong chord. Imogen leaned back against the rail, hiding a grin. Claire glanced between them all, quietly glad they’d ended on this note — messy, friendly, real.
As the doors opened again on another floor, Lucas stepped out without looking back. That’s him, Claire thought. Never stays long once things settle.
She caught Imogen’s reflection — thoughtful, still processing Jalen’s earlier offer — and nudged her gently. “Deep in music math?”
“More like lyric panic,” Imogen said with a crooked smile. “You think he’s serious?”
“I think he’s smart enough not to joke about that stuff,” Claire said. “And if it works out, even better. You both sounded great today.”
“Lucas didn’t sound thrilled.”
“Lucas is allergic to anything that isn’t his idea.”
They laughed quietly as the elevator chimed for their floor.
Their Apartment — Late Night
Eli looked up from the couch as they walked in, one earbud dangling, gaming laptop balanced dangerously on his knee. “You two look like the official definition of overtime.”
“Compliment accepted,” Claire said, dropping her tote by the door.
“You missed great noodles,” Imogen added.
“I have noodles. Microwave ones,” he said without looking up. “Welcome home.”
In their shared bedroom, the girls changed into hoodies and loose pants, still chatting through toothbrush foam and half‑finished sentences. The gossip circled everything and nothing — Jalen’s charm, Soeun’s comeback, Mara’s invisible influence.
“Do you think she planned any of this?” Imogen asked around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Mara?” Claire shrugged. “If she did, she’s better at it than we’ll ever know. But I think tonight was real. The guys didn’t feel staged.”
“True. J Min’s face when Lumi came up in conversation?” Imogen laughed. “Priceless.”
Claire smiled. “Sometimes gossip gives more hope than trouble.”
When the chatting faded, Claire lay back on her pillow, notebook open on her knees. The lines she’d scribbled from rehearsal were still stuck in her head. She hummed under her breath, soft melodies turning into new lyrics — small, honest, full of life again.
Eli’s voice drifted from the lounge, half distracted but fond: “That song? Keep it. I’ll produce it if you finish a demo this time!”
“Deal!” she called, laughing.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand. Evan.
“Deal!” she called, laughing.”
Claire grinned, thumbs moving fast.
Just crashed. You sending late‑night check‑ins now?”
“Someone’s gotta make sure you survived Jalen’s cuisine.”
“Best noodles of my life.”
“No way. Mine come with emotional support.”
“Then bring the support, not the carbs.”
“So flirting now counts as band wellness?”
“If the therapy works, keep texting.”
She bit back a smile as another message appeared almost instantly:
“Good. Because next session, I’m claiming chorus harmony privileges.”
“Denied. You sound like a lullaby gone rogue.”
“Exactly. I lull enemies.”
“Goodnight, menace.”
“Goodnight, star.”
Claire set the phone down, still smiling, warmth sitting easy behind her chest. The day had been long and strange, filled with blunders and whispers — but somehow it still ended here: music scribbles, laughter fading through thin walls, the quiet certainty that tomorrow would bring another song.
Apex Prism — Mara’s Morning Briefing
The city’s first light cut across the mirrored skyline and filled Mara’s office with gold. She arrived before anyone else, as always. The quiet hour suited her — Apex Prism was hers alone then, an empire of open files and unanswered messages.
Steam curled from her coffee as she reviewed the overnight summary, her eye catching each report like a hawk spotting movement.
• Neon Pulse rehearsals proceeding — strong cohesion.
• Infinity Line overseas schedule finalized for next quarter.
Underneath, a small note from her assistant: Lucid rehearsing privately — NDAs holding solid.
Mara tapped the page thoughtfully. Tight secrecy around Lucid’s mixed lineup had been her idea from day one. Five members — three established males, two fresh female faces — was a recipe too lucrative to risk spoiling before the film went public. Their stay in Orion Heights wasn’t a perk but a precaution. That exclusive residence, shared only with Infinity Line and senior executives, served as both refuge and leverage.
“They think they’re there for safety,” Mara murmured. “In truth, they’re there for containment.”
Her phone screen lit again with new correspondence — internal chatter from the PR branch. Screenshots of fan engagement graphs, mock‑ups of upcoming brand decks for Neon Pulse, and, buried in the metadata, a telling little notation: Evan → Claire messaging frequency.
Mara’s smile curved slowly. So the boy finally had a confidante. Adorable — harmless for now, potentially valuable later. She’d always said personal warmth made better headlines than perfection ever did.
She marked a note for later: “If visible, package Claire + Evan as creative synergy — writing partners, not romance.” Her gold pen gleamed against the paper.
The screen changed to her weekly partnerships board. Endorsements, sponsorships, and pending negotiations filled the grid — beauty lines, sneakers, soft drinks, all hungry to link with anything Apex Prism touched.
For now, Neon Pulse were her primary assets. Because they lived on the Han‑River campus — accessible, camera‑friendly, easily mobilised — they could feed the exposure that Lucid’s confidentiality couldn’t. Their social snippets, fan‑signings, and practice‑room livestreams kept the media machine well-fed, ensuring Apex Prism stayed visible even while half its crown jewels hid behind security gates.
“Visibility is the heartbeat,” Mara said quietly, scrolling through the early‑morning analytics. Neon Pulse rising steadily. Public thinks we’re unstoppable.
In truth, she carried half an empire on NDA silence and the other half on selective spectacle — a pulse between secrecy and noise.
At the bottom of her agenda lay the line that mattered most to her. Project: Soeun — Solo Relaunch confirmed.
She let the words roll through her thoughts like a victory note. JR believed he had saved his old colleague through sheer persistence. The label believed they’d found redemption material. Only Mara knew how much data, footage, and digital residue she had rewritten to make Soeun marketable again.
Trade their guilt for your grace, she’d once whispered to the mirror. And as always, it worked.
The internal call tone beeped once. Her assistant’s voice came through, polite and practised. “Ms Jeong, the brand teams are ready downstairs.”
Mara rose, smoothing her suit jacket. “Tell them I’ll be down shortly. We’re crossing departments today — Pulse, the designers, the beverage clients, everyone. I want every light trained in the right direction.”
She paused by the window before leaving, taking in the skyline. The Han River gleamed on one side — where Neon Pulse rehearsed in plain sight for the press. Farther across stood Orion Heights, sealed, quiet, and hidden from cameras — where Lucid lived and Infinity Line nursed its fame in peace.
“Two worlds,” she said softly, watching the reflection of her own calm face in the glass. “One for the story, one for the secret.”
Her smile deepened. “And both mine.”
She set down her untouched coffee, locked the office, and left the lights burning behind her — a deliberate trick so even the cleaners would say she was always working. She never minded what story people told, so long as it was about her.
Today’s work: line up new brand deals, polish publicity, tighten confidence. Tomorrow’s plan: something louder.
“They’ll think it’s luck again,” she murmured to herself as the elevator doors closed. “But it’s always choreography.”
Apex Prism — Between Rehearsals
Claire sometimes thought the days were starting to blend — long stretches of mirror glare, stylists calling out time, the metallic tang of energy drinks. But everything felt lighter lately. Maybe it was Evan’s fault. Probably was.
He had a way of appearing wherever she went — kid brother to the universe, barely on time, sneakers squeaking through the studio door. “Hey, partner,” he’d say like he hadn’t just seen her two hours ago.
Sometimes she saw the little looks from people passing by; one of the junior stylists had started calling them “the twin magnets.” The name stuck because it was true — they always drifted back to each other no matter how busy the floor was.
“You again,” she said one morning, catching his reflection behind her in the mirror.
“You love it,” he said, offering her a bottle of iced tea. “Drink. I saw your eye twitch in the last chorus.”
“That’s called effort.”
“That’s called dehydration.”
Imogen passed by, towel around her neck. “Flirting via electrolyte advice — I’ve seen worse methods.”
“You’re late for guitar drills,” Claire shot back.
“Drills can wait,” Imogen said, winking. “Coffee can’t.”
Beside her, Jalen appeared like punctuation, grinning with that easy energy of his.
“She means coffee,” he said quickly, side‑eying Imogen. “Not another interrogation about my occasional smoke breaks.”
“Occasional?” Imogen gasped. “Right. And the ashtray fills itself.”
“It’s character development,” he argued. “Makes me mysterious.”
Dominic called from across the room, “You mean makes you wheeze.”
The laughter rolled; even Lucas cracked a grin from his spot by the door.
Claire found herself smiling at them all — messy, good‑natured chaos. This was the rhythm she liked best; the hum of friendship, rivalry, and the weird bond of shared exhaustion.
Orion Heights Rooftop
Later that week, their “breaks” turned into miniature rooftop rituals. Not secret exactly, just private enough — triangle rice packs, canned coffee, and breathers stolen between schedules.
“No smoke zone,” Claire declared once, eyeing Jalen’s pocket.
“Not even thinking about it,” he lied.
Imogen snatched his lighter anyway. “Trade you for dessert.”
“Blackmailing me with lemon cakes now?”
“Public health diplomacy,” she corrected, biting into one. He looked appalled enough for it to be victory.
Evan sat to one side, hair pushed off his forehead, half‑listening, half‑laughing. Claire could feel it, the pull again — not possessive, just magnetic. Every time conversation scattered, his focus drifted back to her, like she was north on a compass he hadn’t realised he was carrying.
He’s impossible, she thought, hiding a smile. And too easy to forgive for it.
Across the table, Lucas and Dominic were arguing production theories; Uriel was taking photos of the skyline for creative “inspiration.” Imogen and Jalen traded jabs about chord progressions and nicotine.
It all looked almost normal — just young artists killing time — except for how often Evan’s gaze found hers.
Claire’s Monologue
Nights were quieter but thoughts weren’t. Between rehearsals, PR updates, and her notebook full of half‑written lyrics, Claire caught herself wondering when everything had tilted from survival to enjoyment.
Evan’s texts came like habit now — early morning gym nags, late‑night snack memes, jokes about the interns who always spelled “Lucid” wrong on delivery orders.
She didn’t mind. Maybe she even needed it.
He’s good at this, she wrote one evening. At making chaos look easy. At walking into rooms like rumours can’t touch him.
And maybe she envied that a little. Because even when people whispered, “They’re close, aren’t they?” she never had to explain herself — she just smiled and kept moving.
Lucas was quieter around her lately, protective but distant, his focus tangled somewhere between group responsibility and late‑night messages that probably led back to Mara. Imogen seemed lighter though — sparring with Jalen daily, her laughter coming easier each time.
As the launch party approached, rehearsals became longer, managers tighter with schedules, and PR assistants suddenly everywhere.
But the rooftop lunches stayed. And so did the running jokes — Jalen insisting his next solo should be titled No Smoking Zone; Evan declaring himself official vending‑machine ambassador; Claire pretending to keep everyone organised even as she laughed herself breathless.
The closer the executive launch drew, the more it felt like calm before a storm. But for now, in every message that flashed between schedules —
“Lunch?”
“Roof?”
“Bring dessert, outlaw.” —
Claire decided rumours could wait. If there was one thing Apex Prism had taught her, it was that the best parts of a story often happened where no one was looking.
Infinity Line Charity Night — The Hotel Rooftop
The invitation had come from JR himself — a voice note, not an email.
“No management. No PR tags. Just a night doing some good — and pretending we’re cultured while we’re at it.”
So, the six of them arrived not red‑carpet ready, but nicely presentable: jackets over band shirts, Imogen in wide‑leg slacks, Claire in a simple black dress with her hair looped back, and Evan looking like he’d ironed his outfit with one strong wish.
The venue was a boutique hotel converted into a gallery for the night. The top floor smelled like paint, champagne, and air‑con that had given up halfway. Art prints lined the walls while attendants balanced trays of too‑pretty hors d’oeuvres.
“Why do curators all talk like they swallowed a thesaurus?” Jalen whispered as they stepped inside.
“Because they did,” Imogen muttered. “Twice.”
“Be nice,” Claire warned, nudging her. “They’re paying for this.”
“So basically we’re decorative philanthropy,” J Min commented.
“Precisely,” Evan replied. “Human wallpaper with rhythm.”
JR raised his glass from the small stage area. “Infinity Line thanks all of you for showing up tonight — not because labels told you to, but because every performance funds creative scholarships for local students. We’re artists supporting artists, cameras or not. Now eat, talk, pretend you understand abstract sculpture.”
The laughter rippled easily; the pressure of looking perfect softened into an easy hum.
Between Exhibits
Claire lingered near an ink painting of skyline silhouettes. Evan sidled up beside her, balancing two glasses of sparkling water.
“This one’s called Melancholy in Ultramarine,” she read off the label.
“Dramatic name for four lines and a sad rectangle,” he said.
“You sound jealous.”
“I am. I can’t even hang my laundry straight without criticism.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “A true tragedy.”
A camera shutter clicked nearby. Subtle, but there. Claire’s shoulders tensed for a moment; Evan caught it.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “We’re just two philanthropically decorative wall fixtures, remember?”
“Still don’t want rumours starting.”
“Rumours can RSVP later,” he said with a grin.
She tried to suppress her laugh — didn’t quite succeed.
The Others
Imogen and Jalen were busy debating what counted as “modern” in modern art.
“If it looks like something I’d trip over in rehearsal, it’s not art,” Jalen declared.
“That’s half the industry,” Imogen retorted. “Careful, you’re sitting next to a mixed‑media installation.”
Lumi rolled her eyes. “You two are exhausting.”
J Min barely heard them — he was watching her fiddle with the sleeve of her cardigan while she studied a line of sculptures. His drink remained untouched long enough for Imogen to notice.
“He’s gone,” she stage‑whispered to Jalen.
J Min blinked. “What?”
“Lost to the lumi‑nation,” Imogen said.
“Okay, no,” he snapped back, cheeks colouring. “That was painful.”
“You’re welcome,” she said sweetly.
JR laughed from a few feet away. “We invited artists, not comedians, right?”
“Too late,” Jalen said. “We’re unionising.”
Rooftop Interlude
As the night spread thin, the music drifted upward through the skylight. The six of them escaped again — not forbidden, just quietly encouraged by JR’s thumb‑up from the stairwell.
The rooftop air hit like freedom. Below, laughter and jazz lingered; above, the city glowed like a circuit board.
Evan dumped a paper bag on the table: assorted vending‑machine loot. “Alright, team morale snack session. Fizzy lollipops meet cheap sparkling water — a timeless pairing.”
“Still pretending you’re a mixologist?” Claire asked.
“Vending alchemist,” he corrected, unwrapping one of the garish candies. “Observe science in motion.”
The candy fizzed dramatically inside the flutes. Imogen clapped like a proud parent.
“Ten points for effort,” said Jalen, biting into a lemon tart. “Minus five for sugar poisoning.”
“Artistry demands sacrifice,” Evan replied.
For a few moments, it was just laughter and the low crackle of their sparklers. JR had sent up a few with the words ‘no photos unless it’s for fun.’ They lit the sticks anyway, waving them like constellations.
J Min finally gathered his courage to stand beside Lumi, offering his sparkler. “Dual ignition?”
“Only if you promise not to set my cardigan on fire.”
“That’s a big promise,” he said, voice too soft.
Imogen smirked at Jalen. “He’s doomed.”
Claire glanced their way, warm amusement on her face. Then Evan caught her looking again — and there it was, that stillness he always felt before a song hit its perfect line.
“What?” she said, catching the stare.
“Nothing,” he said. “You just—look nice when you forget people are watching.”
She went quiet for a beat, sparklers burning down in her hand, light brushing against her face.
“We should probably head back,” she murmured. “Before the curators start grading our absence.”
“Let them.”
The rooftop echoed with laughter and the occasional snap of a lighter. It wasn’t freedom, exactly — they were still under lights, still guests with obligations — but it felt freer. Just different enough to breathe before the next round of suits and speeches.
“To Infinity Line,” Imogen toasted, raising what was left of her drink. “And to art that occasionally makes sense!”
The group cheered, six voices spilling into the skyline.
Evan watched, half‑grinning, knowing that after tonight it wouldn’t be this simple again — but tonight was theirs, and under the mix of sugar, city, and moonlight, that was enough.
The Deck Before the Chaos
The restaurant was half‑closed when the night started, but no one who lived in Orion Heights ever obeyed its timetable. By ten, the front lights were dimmed while the back deck still hummed with the kind of laughter that belongs only to off‑hours. The grill sizzled faintly from Jalen’s questionable attempt at “barbecue art,” and JR perched near the edge of the ping‑pong table keeping score on his phone as if fairness depended on data.
“You counted that as a point?” Jalen protested.
“You hit the garden fence,” JR deadpanned. “If we’re feeding foliage, it doesn’t count.”
“The foliage needed a challenge!”
Evan leaned back in his chair, watching the two of them argue under the string lights twining along the railing. The koi pond below reflected them in scattered colours; every so often, a fish broke the surface, unimpressed. It was late spring, the air soft and heavy with the smells of charcoal and soy.
“This,” JR said finally, handing Evan the paddle, “is your chance to reclaim dignity for our side of the table.”
“No pressure,” Jalen said. “Just the reputation of all barbecue artists at stake.”
Evan cracked a grin and served. The ball ricocheted once, twice, off the table, then vanished through the deck railing.
“Excellent,” JR said. “The koi are winning.”
“We’ll call it avant‑garde,” Jalen replied. “Sport as meditation.”
They were still laughing when Sunhwa slid open the back door, a tray balanced on one arm.
“You boys want real food or should I bring pond water to match the theme?” she said.
“Real food, please,” JR said instantly.
“By the way,” she added, setting the tray down. “ Those artists from that movie we are not supposed to talk about are back this week, I got out of Imogen they they went for a short resort publicly shoot on one of the old kingdom gardens and Claire just ordered from the deli. I told her if she’s coming down anyway, she should say hi.”
Evans head lifted immediately. “Claire’s back? Oh, you have to tell her to come out here.”
“Already did,” Sunhwa said with a sly smile. “She’ll pick up in twenty minutes.”
“Perfect timing,” JR said, leaning back. “We’ve been missing our resident critic.”
The ping‑pong match carried on like background music — JR’s quiet precision against Jalen’s endless trash talk — but Evan wasn’t really watching the ball. He sat back in his chair, legs stretched under the table, eyes drifting up through the canopy of string lights to the line of balconies curving above the courtyard.
He knew exactly which one was hers. Third level from the corner, near the external stairwell where the koi pond light reflected faintly upward at night. She’d once pointed it out, saying the pond made the building feel softer — “like everything has a heartbeat down there somewhere.” Back then, he’d laughed. Now, it just stuck.
From down here, the apartment windows formed a jagged glow above the garden — half glass, half shadow. Somewhere inside, her voice had probably just echoed against the metal sink or the door latch as she slipped on shoes.
Funny how routines built their own choreography. He’d never meant to memorize the anatomy of Orion Heights, but he could trace every route she’d ever mentioned — from the main studio walkway near the glass lifts, past the deli courtyard where she grabbed her groceries, down to this back lane past the koi pond. In daylight, the whole place felt manufactured; at night, it turned human. She’d said that too.
He smiled a little at the memory of her saying it while standing right beside this deck months back, looking out at the pond. She’d worn a cardigan too big for her and shoes hanging loose on her heels — neat enough for an interview, messy enough to still feel like herself. They hadn’t had much time that afternoon before he got yanked into another briefing, but it had been one of those unguarded minutes he kept replaying when the schedule felt endless.
Most of the last week, “endless” had been the only word that fit. The promotion shoot for the movie had dragged them halfway across the district, keeping him away under that tightening NDA glare. The messages she’d sent were brief — a photo of waterfall mist, a line about morning rehearsals, an emoji shaped like sleepiness. It wasn’t much, but it filled a surprising amount of space in his day.
He hadn’t realized how quickly he’d missed her until he landed back home and saw Sunhwa’s text flash across his screen: she’s back — ordering noodles again.
Maybe it was ridiculous, waiting like this fourteen minutes for a takeaway order that wasn’t his, pretending to keep score while the ping‑pong rhythm filled the air. But some part of him couldn’t shake the quiet ache of it — that small, familiar anticipation that came with her name entering a conversation, or the sound of her laugh arriving from a hallway.
The tour schedule loomed again on his phone; he’d looked at it six times tonight already. Dates stretching across months. Cities stacked like a map he wasn’t sure he could fit her into. Maybe that’s what tugged at him most — the thought of leaving just when he’d started to feel like she was part of the unspoken rhythm here, right alongside the koi pond, the barbecue smoke, and the sound of skipped ping‑pong balls.
“You’re staring holes through the building,” Jalen called.
Evan looked down, startled. “Was not.”
“Sure,” JR said, smirking. “And if the koi wrote songs, you’d have lyrics by now.”
Evan rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. The sound of their laughter pulled him back to the present — warm air, bright deck lights, and the faint echo of footsteps on the garden path.
He didn’t even need to turn. He already knew whose they were.
Fifteen Minutes Later
The sound of her sneakers on the path came before she appeared — quiet, but familiar. Claire rounded the corner carrying a paper bag of takeaway containers, hair tucked into a loose knot, studio fatigue still written in the slope of her shoulders. When she saw the three of them under the strings of warm bulbs, she blinked and laughed.
“I walk in for noodles and walk out into a ping‑pong tournament?”
“Unfair judgment,” Jalen said, grabbing the spare paddle. “It’s more like a fusion of sport, philosophy, and snacks.”
“So chaos,” she translated.
“Exactly,” JR said. “Want in?”
She hesitated. “I’m in jeans and regret.”
“That’s the dress code,” Evan said, tossing her the paddle. “You’re up against Jalen. Prepare to lose, but look good doing it.”
Sunhwa chuckled from the doorway. “Don’t break my table again.”
Claire set the takeaway bag on a chair, stretched her arms, and served. The ball zinged and clipped Jalen’s shoulder.
“Foul!” he shouted.
“Accurate,” JR corrected, not looking up from his scoreboard app. “First point: Claire.”
Later on the Deck
They ended up sitting around the low outdoor table, half‑finished drinks and leftover kimchi pancakes between them. Near midnight, the conversation rolled from rehearsals to bad online reviews to who could plausibly live on instant coffee the longest (Jalen and Claire tied).
Then Evan mentioned, almost as an afterthought, “My parents are flying in tomorrow. Staying for a weekend.”
“Ooh,” Jalen said immediately, eyebrows arching. “Parental visitation. Big stuff.”
“It’s just a weekend.”
“Parents don’t fly across districts for just a weekend,” JR said, amused. “Does your mum know where you keep your emergency laundry pile?”
“Don’t start,” Evan groaned.
“You should invite Claire to dinner,” Jalen added helpfully, flipping a peanut in his hand. “Build goodwill. Parents love artist friends. Makes you sound emotionally balanced.”
“No thanks,” Evan said, deadpan. “She’s had enough of my disasters for one career.”
“Funny you say that,” Jalen muttered under his breath, glancing at JR, who smirked.
“What’s funny?” Evan asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Jalen said quickly. “Just thinking how Sunhwa’s going to mention you to your mum again — she thinks it’s cute you hang out here.”
“Great. Next rumor will be that I live under the grill.”
Claire laughed, shaking her head. “You could do worse than free food and babysitting the koi.”
“He talks to the koi,” JR said kindly.
“They’re good listeners,” Evan replied.
“Uh‑huh,” Jalen said, eyeing him. “And hypothetical question: if your parents did ask about, say—people you spend time with—would you panic?”
“No. I’d just change the subject.”
Jalen grinned. “Like you’re doing right now?”
“Exactly.”
JR raised his glass. “To dodging subjects.”
They clinked, the conversation slipping easily back to jokes about ping‑pong commentary and Sunhwa’s eternal battle against burnt skewers.
Out near the koi pond, the reflection of their laughter danced in the water. The night held that lazy stretch before trouble — when everything felt right enough that nobody realized how quickly misunderstandings could multiply.
Later, as Claire picked up her bag to go upstairs, Jalen called after her, “Don’t forget, Evan’s parents arrive in the morning — bring your best Sunday smile!”
She waved a hand without looking back. “I’ll smile if the universe behaves.”
None of them suspected she’d be the first one in the firing line when the universe decided to improvise.
Moving into Orion Heights had sounded glamorous — floor‑to‑ceiling windows, proximity to the studios, a “creative hub” full of artists. In reality, it was mostly sound checks bleeding through walls, half‑working elevators, and half‑asleep composers in the lobby. Still, after years of bouncing between rehearsal spaces, Claire found comfort in the background buzz of it all.
Her evenings usually ended in the recording booth or with takeout balanced on a keyboard. She tried to cook, sometimes, but most nights convenience won — which was how she got to know Sunhwa and her small corner of the complex.
The restaurant sat tucked at the back of the lower courtyard, past a ring of stone lanterns and the koi pond that caught light from the balcony railings above. Part of the same family that ran the deli two doors down, it was where Claire often went when she was too exhausted to keep her own fridge stocked. The owners ran both spots as one small neighbourhood network: the deli during the day, the restaurant at night.
Sunhwa had that rare kind of hospitality that wasn’t forced; she’d remember your order, ask about your day, and tuck extra dumplings in takeaway containers if you looked worn out. Over time, a casual “hi” became friendship.
“You work too much,” Sunhwa had told her once, handing over a paper bag heavier than Claire had ordered. “You need to eat like someone who has time to sleep.”
“That’s optimistic,” Claire had said, smiling.
Their schedules overlapped in odd ways — Claire’s studio nights and soundtrack revisions, Sunhwa’s late closing shifts. Occasionally, when a delivery ran long or someone called in sick, Sunhwa would ask, “Are you free an hour? Need someone to keep Hana busy.” And if Claire happened to have that one free hour, she’d wander down, watch the girl draw at the back tables, or take her walking along the small path by the koi pond where the restaurant’s little gate opened toward the gardens.
Most afternoons, the back deck buzzed quietly — a ping‑pong table, a barbecue tucked in the corner, vines curling up the railings. It wasn’t a full‑time hangout for Claire, more something she passed through in those calm late hours when the building seemed to tilt toward evening.
At home upstairs, her younger cousin sometimes visited; they’d talk through schedules, share ramen bowls on the floor. Eli, ever the dedicated artist, rarely joined in. He was usually lost in work, his room’s glow visible even at 3 A.M. Sometimes she joked the building ran on three things: caffeine, deadlines, and ramen steam.
For Claire, Orion Heights became exactly that — a balance between convenience and connection. Not constant companionship, but something gentler: people she could count on to smile, to send leftovers upstairs when work ran late, to make her life feel less like a loop of studio lights and edits.
Which was why, when her phone buzzed one Sunday morning with Sunhwa’s frazzled voice asking, “Can you please come down? The fish market’s chaos; Hana’s wide awake, and I can’t leave her alone while I pick up the crabs!” — Claire didn’t even hesitate.
“I’m on my way,” she said, throwing on a jacket. She figured an hour of babysitting couldn’t possibly cause trouble.
That assumption would turn out to be the last moment of peace she’d have all week. 🧡
Sunday Morning — The Restaurant’s Misfire
Orion Heights woke up slowly on Sundays. The building didn’t so much start the day as it stretched into it — gym trainers collecting coffees, sleepy producers coming off overnight sessions, and the courtyard fountain making its usual heroic effort to drown out someone’s Bluetooth speaker.
Jalen, self‑appointed social secretary of Lucid, had already been up since dawn texting everyone like chaos was a profession.
“Evan, your parents landed. I got them sorted — they’re grabbing ingredients from Sunhwa’s restaurant downstairs. Told them your friend Claire will open up for them.”
“What friend Claire?” Evan replied.
“Claire. Fellow artist Claire.”
“You mean my bandmate Claire?”
“Details.”
Downstairs, Claire was indeed opening up Sunhwa’s Korean‑fusion restaurant for the morning’s supply drop. Sunhwa had raced out early to pick up fresh seafood and herbs before the markets sold out, leaving eight‑year‑old Hana with her. Claire, being a catastrophically kind person, had agreed. In exchange, she was promised lunch and one free bubble tea.
“Okay kiddo,” she said, switching on the restaurant lights. “You can draw, but no pretending the soy sauce bottles are action toys this time.”
“Yes, Auntie Claire,” Hana said dutifully, already setting up crayons.
The restaurant smelled pleasantly of sesame oil and disinfectant. Morning sun streamed through the front glass. Claire balanced the delivery log on the counter, hair in a messy bun, wearing jeans and one of Sunhwa’s aprons that said ‘whisk responsibly.’
Peace.
Until the chime above the door jingled.
“Good morning!” a woman’s voice sang. “Oh — you must be Claire! Jalen said you’d have the key!”
Claire turned — and almost dropped the clipboard.
It was Mrs. Rhee, beaming, with Mr. Rhee behind her holding a shopping list and looking like a polite detective.
“Oh… hello, you must be Evan’s—”
“Parents!” both Rhees chorused proudly. “We’re picking up ingredients for dinner tonight. Jalen said you were helping.”
“Helping. Yep. That’s… me,” Claire managed.
Hana popped up from her chair, waving a crayon drawing. “Mama, look! I made a tiger pancake!”
Mrs. Rhee gasped delightedly. “She called you Mama! That’s so sweet!”
“Oh n‑no, she’s not— I’m not—” Claire stammered helplessly, brandishing the clipboard like a shield. “She’s just borrowing the word! Her real mum’s out getting oysters! That sentence sounds worse out loud!”
Mr. Rhee chuckled. “No need to be shy! We’re very open‑minded people.”
“Sir, I swear she’s not mine, I’m on babysitting duty while actual Mum is… fish‑shopping!”
“So responsible…” Mrs. Rhee said approvingly. “Evan always liked dependable girls.”
“A dream come true,” Claire muttered under her breath.
As timing would have it (fate had an awful sense of humour), the door opened again and Evan appeared — half awake, hoodie thrown over his shirt, hair everywhere.
The moment he saw the scene — his parents chatting warmly with Claire in his friend’s apron while a child called her “Mama” — he groaned audibly.
“Please,” he said, “tell me this isn’t happening.”
“It’s happening,” Claire squeaked. “Help.”
“Evan!” his mum beamed. “We were just saying how responsible your young family looks!”
“MY WHAT?” Evan’s voice hit an octave only dogs could hear.
“Your family,” his dad repeated, as if clarifying weather updates. “Lovely little girl, polite caregiver, morning chores…” He pointed at Hana, now coloring a cat riding a fish. “Domestic harmony.”
Evan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mum, Dad. That’s Sunhwa’s kid. This is Claire. My friend. You know — friend friend. Fellow artist. Neighbor. Definitely not anyone’s mother.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Rhee blinked. “Jalen said something about ‘their dynamic being really cute.’”
“I swear to god,” Evan muttered, “I’m deleting that man’s number.”
“But it is cute,” Mr. Rhee added unhelpfully.
“Out,” Evan said finally, pointing dramatically toward the door. “Go pick your basil and go home before I disown everyone.”
As his parents left (chuckling, of course), Hana tugged on Claire’s apron. “They’re funny,” she whispered.
“Funny,” Claire said weakly, “is one word.”
“Do they think you’re really my mum?”
“Apparently.”
“Cool!” Hana grinned. “Can you pack my lunch box?”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
After Sunhwa came back, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her seafood crate, Evan whisked Claire away for a breather. They ended up outside in the sunny courtyard, walking the bridge over the koi pond. Security guards waved; they were used to the celebrity circus by now.
“Next time Jalen volunteers me in a text message, I’m hurling his phone in that pond,” Evan said.
“You and me both. I almost became your daughter’s mother through community gossip.”
“My actual mum already texted the extended family. Grandpa sent me a thumbs‑up emoji.”
Claire stopped walking, doubled over laughing. “That’s tragic.”
“It’s generational trauma,” he sighed. “But with stickers.”
“At least Hana got free art appreciation out of it,” she said, pointing to the drawing now peeking from his hoodie pocket.
He unfolded it — the Tiger Pancake. “This is my new phone background.”
“Perfect,” she said. “A symbol of your brief life as a scandalous young father.”
“Please don’t call it that.”
They both started laughing again, leaning on the railing as the koi flicked calm ripples across the water.
“Seriously,” he said after a moment, quieter, “thanks for surviving that. My parents mean well. They just… collect people aggressively.”
“It’s fine,” she said, eyes still bright. “It’s kind of nice, actually — this whole building feels like a sitcom.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “and I think we just filmed the pilot.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t air.”
“Too late,” Evan said, checking his phone with a theatrical groan. “Jalen just sent the group chat a meme titled ‘Mum Goals — Featuring Claire.’”
She sighed. “I’m suing.”
“We’ll file jointly.”
Sunlight glinted on the ripples below as they laughed, the whole bizarre morning already turning into a story — exactly the kind the tight‑knit Orion Heights crowd would live off for months.
Late Sunday Morning — After the Restaurant Mix‑Up
By the time the grocery bags made it upstairs, Evan’s morning dignity was hanging by a thread. His parents had settled into his apartment as if they’d lived there for years — his mother rearranged the cushions, his father was already in charge of the rice cooker, and both looked pleasantly smug.
“So,” Mrs. Rhee said brightly, unpacking vegetables. “That was such a lovely girl at the restaurant.”
“Mum,” Evan warned, “don’t start.”
“We’re not starting anything,” she said innocently. “Just noticing that she’s… polite, grounded, very normal for what you do.”
“She was holding someone else’s kid!” he protested.
“Exactly,” Mr. Rhee said, folding the grocery receipt neatly. “She seems responsible.”
Evan dragged a hand down his face. “This is worse than a press interview.”
“We just haven’t heard you talk about anyone since—well, since forever,” his mum said softly, then smiled. “It’s good to have friends outside the industry treadmill.”
“She is in the industry,” he said.
“But she still talks like a person,” his dad replied. “Rare skill.”
Evan looked skyward, muttering something that could have been a prayer.
His phone buzzed — a text from Jalen.
The instigator had more to say.
The apartment had gone still after his parents turned in. Their laughter and the clatter of dishes faded down the hallway, leaving only the faint hum of the city outside. Evan stood in the doorway of his bedroom, lights soft against the walls, the telescope a dark silver silhouette by the window.
Orion Heights glowed beyond the glass — deck lights dim now, koi pond a dark mirror. A few balconies still lit across the way, one of them hers.
He pulled the curtain aside and angled the telescope toward the night sky, then hesitated, adjusting it lower until the lens framed the courtyard instead. It was a harmless habit, half astronomy, half geography. He’d learned the building’s constellations by heart: Sunhwa’s lantern flickering below; the deli’s overnight freezer fan; the single balcony light she always forgot to switch off.
His phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand. Jalen’s name.
“You alive?” came the voice after Evan accepted the call.
“Barely,” Evan said. “My parents have declared me a social project.”
“I heard.” Jalen’s laugh was low. “They texted me, you know. Said you need more company.”
“You’re an instigator.”
“I was born helpful.”
“You were born suspicious,” Evan countered.
The line filled with comfortable noise; the kind of pause that never needed explaining.
Jalen broke it first. “So… how complicated is it, really?”
“Define complicated.”
“You miss her, you’re not supposed to, and you’re climbing the walls about it.”
Evan leaned on the windowsill, looking through the lens again — stars turning blurred and soft. “More or less.”
Jalen snorted. “You know telescopes are for gazing up, not sideways toward your crush’s balcony.”
“I’m practicing relativity,” Evan said dryly. “Trying to measure emotional distance instead of planetary.”
“Any success, Professor?”
“Not really. Turns out feelings don’t stay in orbit just because you want them to.”
That made Jalen quiet for a moment. Then, softer: “You know the drill. No PDA, no headlines, no breadcrumbs. Mara smells subtext the way sharks smell blood.”
“I know. We signed the pact,” Evan said. “Private, professional, polite—tick all the boxes. But lately, I feel like I’m living behind filters even when the cameras aren’t there.”
“That’s the job.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t make it less weird.”
“So what are you looking for, then?”
“A gesture,” Evan admitted. “Something quiet. Something she’ll understand that no one else will notice.”
Jalen hummed thoughtfully. “Classic hopeless romantic move. Dangerous territory.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Sure,” Jalen said lightly, “but I never aimed my telescope at my love life.”
“You’d trip over the tripod.”
“Fair,” he laughed. Then, after a beat, “You sure the stars are the thing you’re supposed to be mapping?”
“Probably not,” Evan said. “But it’s the only thing that doesn’t look back right now.”
“Oof. Poetic. Write that down before the label sticks it on an album sleeve.”
Evan smiled faintly, rubbing his thumb over the telescope’s rim. “Maybe later. After the press party.”
“Ah, the rooftop glamour night. Perfect backdrop for doomed restraint and shiny shoes.”
“We’re professionals,” Evan said automatically.
“Sure.” Jalen’s tone softened again. “You’ll figure it out. Just remember the trick to telescopes — the more you focus, the more you narrow your view. Sometimes you have to step back if you actually want to see everything clearly.”
Evan let that settle. Outside, one of the koi lights rippled against the glass. “That’s good advice,” he said quietly. “Even if it came from a barbecue philosopher.”
“Anytime.”
“Night, Jay.”
“Night. Don’t tilt the stars too far.”
The call clicked off.
Evan set the phone down, adjusted the telescope once more toward the sky, and stared until the constellations blurred into a single pale drift. Somewhere below, the pond shimmered again — the same water she’d walked beside countless times.
He rested his forearms on the windowsill, a small smile tugging at him. If the world above was the map, then maybe tomorrow would bring the compass.