She doesn’t go to the press.
That’s the part no one expects.
JR’s girlfriend waits until the building is almost empty, until the rehearsal rooms hum with nothing but air conditioning and the distant echo of someone else’s work. She sits at the small table near the back office, hands folded around a paper cup that’s gone cold.
She has rehearsed this conversation only once — not for polish, but for restraint.
When Lou arrives, she doesn’t stand.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she says. Calm. Measured. No tremor.
Lou studies her for a moment, the way she always does — not searching for weakness, but for intention.
“You said it was time-sensitive,” Lou replies.
“It is,” the girl says. “But it’s not urgent in the way people usually mean.”
She slides a slim folder across the table.
Inside are timestamps, messages, internal memos — not dramatic, not incriminating on their own. That’s what makes them dangerous.
Patterns.
Dates where promises were made and quietly reversed. Clauses that appeared after meetings, never before. Bonus incentives that shifted artists into isolation without calling it that. Internal warnings that never reached the people they were meant to protect.
And underneath it all — Mara’s name.
Not signed.
Just present.
Lou doesn’t react outwardly. She never does. She flips through slowly, already seeing the shape of it.
“You’re not accusing,” Lou says finally.
“No,” the girl replies. “I’m documenting.”
That earns her a second look.
“I loved him,” she continues, still calm. “And I loved the work. That made me useful. People say more around you when they think you won’t burn them.”
Lou closes the folder. “Why now?”
The answer comes easily.
“Because it’s happening again. And because this time, it’s not just JR.”
She pauses, choosing her words with care.
“They’re being encouraged to compete with each other instead of being protected. Decisions are framed as opportunities, but only for some. The rest are told to be patient. To wait their turn. To trust the process.”
Her mouth tightens — not with anger, but with disappointment.
“Trust only works when someone is accountable.”
Lou exhales slowly.
“And you’re prepared to stand by this?” she asks. “Quietly?”
The girl nods. “I don’t want a story. I want it to stop.”
They sit in silence for a beat. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes.
Lou reaches for her phone — not to call legal, not yet. She sends one message, precise and contained.
We have confirmation. No escalation. Begin internal review.
She looks back at the girl.
“This won’t be fast,” Lou says. “And it won’t be clean.”
“I know,” she replies. “That’s why I didn’t shout.”
Lou gathers the folder, her expression unreadable.
“You did the right thing,” she says.
The girl doesn’t smile. She just nods, stands, and leaves without looking back.
Elsewhere
By morning, the atmosphere inside Neon Pulse has shifted — not loudly, not visibly, but enough.
Conversations stop mid-sentence when certain names are mentioned. Schedules feel tighter. Instructions come with more qualifiers.
No one says why.
They don’t need to.
JR senses it first — not accusation, just distance. A manager suddenly unavailable. A meeting postponed twice. A reassurance that lands too rehearsed.
Mara feels it last.
Her inbox still fills. Her name still appears in chains. But the tone has changed.
She is no longer directing movement.
She is being observed.
And for the first time, the silence she once used as a tool is no longer hers to control.
Strike Chaplin knows when the air changes.
It’s one of the reasons he’s survived as long as he has — not by following the rules, but by sensing when they’re about to be rewritten.
The promotion tour looms ahead of them now, a long, glittering corridor of appearances and expectations. He’s technically a separate entity — solo contracts, independent leverage, international backing — but proximity has always been his favourite tool. You don’t need to own a room if you can stand close enough to influence it.
That’s why he starts showing up more.
Not loudly.
Not uninvited.
Just… present.
Lou notices immediately.
She doesn’t comment on it at first. She’s learned that momentum reveals more than confrontation. But as Lucid’s internal trust begins to consolidate around her — quiet nods, redirected approvals, questions routed through her instead of past her — she understands something important:
She can’t do this alone.
And she can’t afford another Mara.
So she appoints someone else.
Blue
His name is Blue. No surname offered, no nickname encouraged.
He arrives without announcement and stays without explanation.
Tall, composed, dressed in dark neutrals that don’t draw the eye but somehow command it anyway. He speaks rarely, and when he does, it’s concise — not sharp, just final. The kind of man who doesn’t raise his voice because he never needs to.
Security, officially.
Operational oversight, unofficially.
Lou introduces him once. That’s all.
“This is Blue,” she says. “He’s here to make sure everyone gets home safe.”
Strike clocks him instantly.
Not because Blue is threatening — but because he isn’t impressed.
That’s new.
The Line That Wasn’t Choreography
The rehearsal is meant to be controlled chaos.
Bodies moving in precise patterns, combat woven into dance — strikes that stop short, grips that release on count, breath timed to music rather than impulse. It’s theatrical, disciplined, demanding trust.
Claire knows the routine well.
They all do.
Strike is flawless technically. Always has been. His timing is sharp, his movements clean, his awareness calibrated to camera angles even when there are no cameras. Professional to the core.
Which is why she feels it immediately when something changes.
The sequence calls for proximity — a turn, a feint, a simulated hold that dissolves into release. But when Strike comes in, his hand doesn’t land where it should. It lingers half a beat too long. The pressure is wrong. Not accidental. Not choreographed.
Not part of the routine.
Claire stiffens.
She disengages exactly as trained — not panicked, not outwardly reactive — stepping back into form, reasserting space without breaking rhythm. Her face stays neutral, her focus forward.
But the line has been crossed.
Lou has been watching from the side of the room.
She isn’t tracking the steps — she’s tracking behavior. Patterns. Micro-shifts. The kind of things men like Strike assume no one notices because they’re wrapped in performance.
She notices.
So does Blue.
He moves before Lou says a word.
Not fast. Not aggressive.
He steps between them as the music cuts, palm raised — not in accusation, but in authority.
“That’s enough,” Blue says calmly.
Strike blinks, caught mid-smile. “What?”
“That wasn’t in the choreography,” Lou says now, voice even, deadly precise.
Strike straightens immediately. Professional reflex kicking in. “It was a misalignment.”
Claire doesn’t look at him.
“It wasn’t,” Lou replies. “And you know that.”
The room has gone quiet.
Lucas shifts, uncomfortable. Imogen steps closer to Claire without thinking — not dramatic, just present. The Stein twins exchange a glance that says we saw it too.
Strike exhales, palms up. “No harm done.”
Blue tilts his head slightly. “Intent matters.”
Strike’s jaw tightens — not anger, but irritation. He isn’t used to being stopped. He’s used to recalibration, not correction.
“I’m not some amateur,” he says. “I know where the lines are.”
Lou meets his gaze steadily. “Then stay on the right side of them.”
There’s a beat — long enough for Strike to realize something has shifted.
This isn’t about discipline.
It’s about access.
And access is no longer his by default.
Later, as the group resets, Strike notices something else he hadn’t wanted to name before.
Claire doesn’t look shaken.
She looks held.
Not by proximity — Evan isn’t there right now, not physically — but by certainty. By boundaries reinforced rather than tested. By the quiet presence of people who noticed, who stepped in, who didn’t ask her to justify discomfort.
Strike clocks it then.
The calls.
The texts.
Evan’s quiet appearances at the edge of rehearsals when schedules allow — never interfering, never claiming space, just watching, steady and unmistakably proud.
Fangirling, almost. Soft. Unthreatening.
And untouchable.
Strike doesn’t push again.
Because for the first time, he understands:
This isn’t a game of charm.
It’s a system of trust.
And he’s no longer the one setting the terms.
Strike waits until later.
He’s learned not to challenge power in public; that kind of man doesn’t last long. Instead, he catches Lou near the corridor outside the rehearsal rooms, where the noise has thinned and the night staff move like ghosts.
“You’re running a tight ship,” he says lightly, leaning against the wall as if this is casual. “Almost military.”
Lou doesn’t stop walking.
“That’s the idea.”
He falls into step beside her. “I’ve worked under plenty of managers. Some burn out fast when they mistake authority for control.”
Lou finally slows and turns.
Her expression isn’t cold. It’s measured.
“You weren’t corrected because of control,” she says. “You were corrected because you misjudged your access.”
Strike smiles, but it doesn’t quite land. “And if I say it won’t happen again?”
Lou nods once. “Then we won’t have this conversation again.”
“And if I don’t?” he presses, curious now.
Lou gestures down the hall, where Blue stands near the exit, hands clasped loosely, posture relaxed. Watching everything without appearing
What Evan Does With Knowledge
Evan hears about it hours later.
Not through gossip.
Not through alarm.
Through the people he trusts to speak plainly.
The call comes while he’s alone in a small studio room, lights dimmed, soundboard still warm from the last run-through. He listens without interrupting, one hand resting on the edge of the desk, jaw set but calm.
He doesn’t ask for details twice.
Because he already knows what it means.
When the call ends, he doesn’t pace. He doesn’t swear. He doesn’t text Claire — not yet. She doesn’t need to carry his reaction on top of her own day.
Instead, he opens a secure thread and types three lines.
Blue — thank you for stepping in.
You read it correctly.
Maintain position.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Understood. Boundaries reinforced. No escalation.
Evan exhales slowly.
This is exactly why he placed Blue there.
Not as muscle.
Not as intimidation.
But as clarity.
From the moment Evan had seen the group dynamic shift — the subtle cracks that opened during the mountain meetings, the way proximity blurred into assumption for some — he’d known Claire would need something he couldn’t always be.
Not a shield.
A line.
Someone who understood that protection isn’t loud. It’s consistent. It’s present even when no one thinks they’re being watched.
Especially then.
Evan leans back in his chair, eyes closed briefly.
Strike doesn’t frighten him.
What unsettles him is the kind of man who mistakes access for entitlement — who thinks professionalism is a mask that can be adjusted to taste.
That kind of man doesn’t respond to confrontation.
He responds to structure.
Blue is structure.
Lou is authority.
Together, they close the gap Evan can’t always fill.
Later, he sends Claire a single message.
Nothing dramatic.
Heard you were handled well today.
I’m glad you weren’t alone.
I’ll see you soon.
He doesn’t add anything else.
He trusts her strength.
He trusts her boundaries.
And he trusts the system he put in place when instinct told him something mattered enough to protect quietly.
Outside the studio, the building settles into night.
Evan stays a moment longer, listening to the hum of the space, feeling the rare steadiness that comes when preparation meets reality and holds.
Whatever comes next — tour pressure, proximity, personalities colliding — he knows this much:
Claire is not unguarded.
And no one who crosses that line will do so twice.
Learning the Shape of a Line
Imogen finds Claire later, after the building has settled into its evening rhythm.
Not immediately after rehearsal — she knows better than that now. She waits until Claire is seated on the low couch near the windows, shoes kicked off, hair loose, scrolling absently without really seeing the screen.
Imogen drops down beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder, close but not crowding.
“You good?” she asks.
It’s not the bright, joking version of her voice. It’s quieter. Older.
Claire looks at her for a second, then nods. “Yeah. I am.”
Imogen studies her face anyway — not searching for cracks, just confirming what she’s been learning to trust: that no reaction doesn’t mean no awareness.
“I saw it,” Imogen says. “The rehearsal. Not all of it — just enough.”
Claire doesn’t tense. That matters.
“It was handled,” Claire replies. “Cleanly.”
Imogen exhales, relieved. “Good. Because I didn’t love the way he moved in. Not wrong enough to call out on instinct, but… wrong.”
She makes a small gesture with her hand, circling the air. “You know. That gray zone people think they can live in.”
Claire smiles faintly. “I do.”
They sit in silence for a beat. Then Imogen adds, more thoughtfully, “I used to let people live there.”
Claire turns to her.
“Not because I wanted to,” Imogen continues, eyes forward. “Just because it was easier than explaining why it felt off. I thought being flexible made me… safer.”
She laughs softly, without humor. “Turns out it just made me tired.”
Claire reaches out, squeezes her hand once. Not reassurance — recognition.
“You’re not wrong for noticing,” Claire says. “And you’re not responsible for fixing it.”
Imogen nods. “I know that now. Or I’m learning it.”
She glances down the hall, where voices drift — Lucas laughing, the twins arguing about food, the low hum of movement.
“I set a boundary today,” she says casually, like it’s no big thing. “Not about him. About me. Told Lucas I needed space before tour. No dramatic speech. Just… truth.”
Claire’s eyebrows lift slightly. “How’d that go?”
“He didn’t love it,” Imogen admits. “But he didn’t fight it either. Which tells me everything.”
She shrugs, then smiles — real this time. “Growth, apparently.”
Claire smiles back.
They sit there, two women who have learned — in different ways, at different speeds — that boundaries don’t have to be sharp to be strong.
As Imogen stands to leave, she pauses.
“For what it’s worth,” she says lightly, “you handled today like a pro. Calm. Clear. No apology.”
Claire tilts her head. “So did you.”
Imogen grins. “Look at us. Maturing. It’s unsettling.”
She heads down the hall, calling back over her shoulder, “Text me if you need anything. Or if you just want snacks.”
Claire watches her go, something warm settling in her chest.
This — this quiet checking in, this unspoken understanding — feels like another kind of safety.
Not enforced.
Not managed.
Chosen.
And for the first time in a long while, Claire feels surrounded not by noise, but by people who know where the lines are — and respect them without being asked.
She leans back into the couch, breathing easier.
The tour will come.
The pressure will follow.
But tonight, at least, she is held by something steadier than attention.
She is held by trust.
The Weight of What Comes Next
The contracts begin arriving without ceremony.
No celebratory emails. No grand announcements.
Just documents sliding into place across secure channels, each one reinforcing what the numbers have already confirmed: the soundtrack isn’t a moment — it’s a trajectory. Streams climbing. Charts stabilising high. Live footage from the summer festival circulating with a consistency that doesn’t spike and fall, but holds.
People want more.
And for once, Apex Prism moves first.
Not to exploit.
To contain.
Lou stands at the centre of it, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp. She knows exactly where Mara tried to pull the music — out from under the umbrella, into fragmented labels and fast pivots that would have burned the group for short-term gain. That lane is closed now.
The new contracts say so plainly.
Unified calendar.
Shared ownership.
Creative continuity protected under Apex Prism and its affiliates.
And Blue’s name appears on every page — not as a creative, not as a public figure, but as operational lead.
Twenty-four hours.
Seven days.
Not surveillance.
Stability.
Blue accepts it without comment.
Blue — Pressure Without Noise
His team expands quietly.
Not menacing. Not showy.
People who blend. People who understand rhythm — travel schedules, human fatigue, emotional volatility. They don’t bark orders. They redirect flow.
Strike notices immediately.
He isn’t barred outright — that would provoke questions. Instead, his access narrows where it matters most: the music.
Rehearsals? Allowed.
Promotional appearances? Managed.
Studio time with Lucid? Redirected.
Not his lane.
Blue never says it aloud.
He doesn’t need to.
The Work That Holds
Inside the studio, something steadier begins to form.
Eli sits at the console, headphones around his neck, fingers moving with the ease of someone who understands structure as instinct. Claire leans against the wall, marking lyrics softly under her breath. Lucas stands closer now — not crowding, not drifting — present.
The three of them find rhythm again.
Not romantic.
Not performative.
Functional.
Music grows fastest when ego stops interrupting it.
Blue watches once, from the doorway, then leaves them alone.
That’s trust.
Shifts You Don’t Announce
Imogen pulls away before anyone names it.
Not dramatically.
Just… differently.
She laughs less with Lucas. Listens more. Chooses silence instead of smoothing over discomfort.
Blue notices. Lou notices.
So does Lucas.
The travel team grows — a new manager introduced under Blue’s direction, someone tasked not with image, but with movement. Hotels. Flights. Time zones. Exhaustion mitigation.
And then Lou does something Mara never would have.
She makes Lucas and Imogen sit down together.
No mediator speeches. No pressure.
Just truth, asked for plainly.
Lucas — Saying It Out Loud
Lucas doesn’t pace. He doesn’t posture.
He sits forward, elbows on knees, eyes on the floor for a moment longer than necessary.
“I owe the group an apology,” he says finally.
No one interrupts.
“I let things slide because it was easier. I let people think things about me because Mara encouraged it — said ambiguity sold better.”
He swallows once.
“The truth is… I’m not straight. I’m bi. I didn’t hide it because I was ashamed. I hid it because I was told it was inconvenient.”
Silence stretches.
Then Blue speaks — calm, factual.
“That changes nothing operationally.”
Imogen looks at Lucas, something unreadable softening in her expression.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asks.
Lucas meets her eyes. “Because I didn’t trust the system. And that’s on me.”
Eli exhales quietly. Claire nods once.
“That’s not a fracture,” Claire says. “That’s just information.”
Blue inclines his head. “And information strengthens teams when it’s no longer leveraged.”
Lucas lets out a breath he’s been holding for years.
Looking Forward
Afterward, Blue walks the corridor alone, listening to the hum of the building settling into a new configuration.
Strike will leave soon — not banished, not rejected — just redirected back to his own orbit. Japan. Solo work. The second phase of Starlight Shadows waiting on the horizon.
The noise will follow him there.
Here, something quieter is forming.
A group that isn’t splintered.
Music that isn’t siphoned.
People learning where they stand without being told where to fall.
Blue checks his phone.
Another approval.
Another session booked.
Another date pencilled into a calendar that finally makes sense.
Pressure increases — but so does alignment.
And for the first time since the soundtrack exploded into the world, the machinery behind it isn’t grinding.
It’s building.
Slow.
Intentional.
Together.
When the System Holds
They end up on the back deck again, not because it’s symbolic, but because it’s quiet.
The restaurant hums behind them — laughter rising and falling, plates clinking, Eli’s voice briefly cutting through in mock outrage over a chord progression — but out here the koi pond reflects soft lantern light, water barely rippling. Claire sits cross-legged on the bench, jacket draped around her shoulders. Evan leans beside her, elbows on his knees, baseball cap low, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been for weeks.
For the first time in a long while, no one is rushing them.
“You feel it too, right?” Claire says, nudging him lightly with her knee. “That… settling.”
Evan hums in agreement. “Like the building finally stopped creaking.”
She smiles, watching the fish circle lazily beneath the surface. “Blue’s team feels different. Not just competent — aligned. None of Mara’s people. No ghosts.”
“Yeah,” Evan says. “That was intentional.”
She glances at him. “I figured. I noticed a couple of them — the way they move. Same calm as the guys in the mountains.”
His mouth curves. “Good eye.”
“So you basically imported peace,” she teases. “Very subtle of you.”
“I aim for invisible,” he replies dryly. “Loud security makes everyone anxious.”
She laughs softly, leaning back on her hands. “It feels safer now. Like the sides aren’t… watching each other anymore.”
“That’s because they’re not,” Evan says. “Blue cut the overlap. Clean lines. No favors owed. No compromises.”
Claire exhales, the sound almost relieved. “And Strike?”
Evan tilts his head, considering. “Let’s just say Blue has a gift for sensing trajectory. And for reminding people where their lane ends.”
She grins. “So he got put in his place.”
“Professionally,” Evan says. “Firmly. Elegantly.”
“As it should be,” she says, satisfied. “Sharks hate being told where the reef stops.”
He chuckles. “He tried pushing into the music side too. Masters, influence, timing. But the original film contracts expired, and Apex locked the rest down fast. No loopholes.”
Claire shakes her head. “Bold of him to try.”
“Bold of him to think we’d miss it,” Evan corrects.
They sit in companionable silence for a moment, the koi surfacing briefly before slipping back into shadow.
“I know you won’t always be around,” Claire says eventually, softer now. “With tour and everything.”
“I know,” he replies. “And I hate that part.”
She turns toward him, earnest. “But I feel better knowing Blue’s there. And Lou. And that it’s not… chaos anymore.”
He nods. “You’ll be busy too. Writing. Composing. Getting pulled into rooms you deserve to be in.”
She makes a face. “Rooms with bad coffee.”
“And egos,” he adds.
“Definitely egos.”
They laugh, the sound easy.
“At least now,” she continues, “our schedules might actually line up. Funny how that happens when someone stops deliberately misaligning them.”
Evan raises an eyebrow. “Imagine that.”
She nudges him again. “We might even see each other on tour.”
“I’ll take whatever windows I get,” he says. “Even if it’s just airport noodles at midnight.”
She smiles at that — the specificity of it, the promise hidden in practicality.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “Imogen seems lighter lately.”
“Yeah,” Evan says. “She does.”
“And Lucas,” Claire adds, lowering her voice playfully, “might have been projecting some things.”
Evan snorts. “You think?”
“I think he might like Strike a little more than he ever liked me,” she says with mock seriousness.
“That… tracks,” Evan replies, deadpan.
She laughs, tipping her head back. “Honestly, I think knowing the truth helped her. Boundaries got clearer. Less guessing.”
“That’s usually how it works,” Evan says. “Truth simplifies things.”
She looks at him then, really looks — the familiar curve of his smile, the calm in his eyes, the way his presence doesn’t demand but offers.
“And us?” she asks lightly, but there’s intent underneath. “When do we stop pretending we’re just… floating?”
He turns toward her fully now. “When you’re ready.”
She studies him for a beat, then smirks. “Good. Because I’m terrible at pretending.”
“Noted,” he says. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
They sit there, shoulder to shoulder, laughter and conversation drifting from inside, the night holding steady around them.
For once, the industry feels distant.
The machinery quiet.
The path ahead — busy, yes — but no longer hostile.
Systems are holding.
People are protected.
And between them, something real has room to breathe.
Claire watches the koi glide beneath the surface and thinks, not for the first time, that safety doesn’t feel like silence.
It feels like this —
ease,
trust,
and the freedom to laugh without looking over your shoulder.
Upstairs, Questions That Don’t Stay Quiet
Claire barely has time to kick her shoes off before she hears it.
Footsteps. Quick. Familiar.
She doesn’t even turn around as she crosses the living room. “If you’re about to ask me something,” she says calmly, “you might as well commit to it.”
Imogen appears at her shoulder like she’s been summoned, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, eyes bright with barely-contained curiosity.
“So,” she says.
Claire sighs. “There it is.”
They make it halfway down the hall before Imogen continues, walking backward now. “You and Evan.”
Claire stops. Slowly.
“Yes, Imogen.”
Imogen grins. “Where’s it going?”
Claire folds her arms. “Direct.”
“Efficient,” Imogen corrects. “We’re going on tour. I like knowing the emotional geography before we cross borders.”
Claire snorts and resumes walking. “I’m not filing an itinerary.”
They reach Claire’s room. Imogen follows her straight in, plopping onto the edge of the bed like she owns the lease.
“Are you going to move on it?” Imogen presses. “Before tour?”
Claire turns, eyebrow raised. “Move on what, exactly?”
“You know,” Imogen says, waving vaguely. “The mutual staring. The koi-pond lingering. The soft voices. The fact that you smile at your phone like it told you a secret.”
Claire gives her a look. “You’ve been spying.”
“I have eyes.”
Claire drops onto the chair by the window. “And you’re suddenly invested because…?”
Imogen leans back on her hands, casual but not really. “Because Blue is now part of our team.”
Claire blinks. “And?”
“And,” Imogen continues, “Blue used to be his security. Like, him him.”
Claire’s mouth curves. “That’s public knowledge.”
Imogen points at her. “And now he’s watching us. Which means, technically, you’re under your love interest’s protection.”
Claire laughs. “Is that your presumption?”
“It’s my conclusion.”
Claire tilts her head. “Interesting. And why does that concern you?”
Imogen opens her mouth, closes it, then squints. “Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because,” Claire says lightly, “you don’t ask questions without a reason.”
Imogen rolls onto her stomach, chin in her hands. “I just think it’s funny.”
“Mm.”
“And maybe a little inconvenient.”
Claire smiles sweetly. “Inconvenient how?”
Imogen shrugs. “Well, if Blue’s watching everything we do—”
“—including you,” Claire finishes.
Imogen groans. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Claire stands, crosses the room, and flicks the balcony door open, letting cool air drift in. “Why would that cramp your style?”
Imogen hesitates.
Claire turns back slowly. “Imogen.”
“I’m not planning anything,” Imogen says too quickly.
“Of course not.”
“But—”
Claire leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, amused. “Is this about Jaylen?”
Imogen freezes.
“Because,” Claire continues gently, “you flattened your whole personality the moment he walked into rehearsal last week.”
“That is not true.”
“You forgot how to blink.”
Imogen groans again, burying her face in a pillow. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
A beat passes.
“…Is it obvious?” Imogen asks, muffled.
Claire softens. “Only to people who know you.”
Imogen peeks up. “Do you think it’s stupid to start something right before tour?”
Claire considers that honestly. “I think it’s stupid to stop yourself just because timing’s inconvenient.”
Imogen nods slowly, absorbing that.
Then she perks up. “So… you are going to move on Evan.”
Claire laughs. “You are impossible.”
“But I’m not wrong.”
Claire glances out at the balcony lights, then back at her cousin. “We’re not rushing. We’re… aligned.”
Imogen beams. “That’s worse. That’s dangerous.”
Claire grabs a pillow and tosses it at her. “Go to bed.”
Imogen catches it, grinning. “Just saying—if Blue’s watching us, he’s also watching you.”
Claire pauses, smiling despite herself. “Good.”
Imogen laughs, hopping up. “Okay. Fair.”
She heads for the door, then turns back. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it’s him.”
Claire’s expression softens. “Me too.”
Imogen slips out, leaving the room quieter than before.
Claire steps onto the balcony alone, breathing in the night air, smiling to herself.
Some questions don’t need answers yet.
But it’s nice to know someone’s paying attention.
The First Wrong Note
It starts the way these things always do.
Not loudly.
Not clearly.
Claire is half-asleep when her phone vibrates against the bedside table — not the sharp insistence of a call, but the soft, almost polite buzz of a message that assumes it belongs there.
She doesn’t reach for it right away.
The room is dark, the city beyond the curtains breathing in low pulses of light. Somewhere down the hall, Eli’s music hums faintly through a wall — familiar, grounding. She turns onto her side, eyes closed, letting the vibration fade.
Then it comes again.
Buzz.
Pause.
Buzz.
She exhales and reaches over, squinting at the screen.
Unknown Account
profile picture: a blurred concert crowd
I love how private you are.
It makes you feel closer.
Claire sits up.
Her thumb hovers. She doesn’t reply. She never replies. Instead, she scrolls.
Another message slides in immediately, as if it’s been waiting.
You stayed late tonight.
The koi pond was pretty.
Her stomach tightens — not panic yet, just that cold awareness, the one that tells you a boundary has already been crossed.
She opens the group chat with Imogen and Eli.
Nothing.
The last message is hours old — a joke about noodles, a sticker, the chat gone quiet in that way that usually means everyone finally slept.
Her phone vibrates again.
This time it’s a voice note.
She doesn’t play it.
She doesn’t have to. The preview waveform alone is enough — long, uneven, too much space between sound and silence.
Claire locks the screen.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed and breathes, steady and deliberate, the way her grandmother taught her when things felt off but not yet dangerous.
Then she opens her secure channel.
Claire → Lou:
Got something. Unknown account. References location. Logging now.
The reply comes faster than she expects.
Lou:
Do not engage. Screenshot. Time-stamp. Send everything.
Claire does.
Lou’s next message is clipped, professional, calm — which somehow makes it worse.
Lou:
You’re not imagining it. We’ll trace the access point. Blue’s looped in.
Claire’s phone buzzes again — a different vibration this time.
Evan.
Evan:
Are you awake?
She hesitates, then types.
Claire:
Yeah. Something weird just came in.
The typing dots appear instantly.
Evan:
I heard. Lou flagged it.
Of course he did.
Her door knocks softly before she can respond.
Imogen, hair tousled, phone in hand, eyes sharp despite the hour.
“Did you get one too?” she asks quietly.
Claire nods once.
Eli appears behind her, already pulling up logs, the glow of his tablet lighting his face. “Different account,” he murmurs. “Same cadence.”
The room feels smaller now.
Claire’s phone lights up again — Evan calling this time.
She answers.
“I’m not stepping back,” he says immediately. No anger. No heat. Just resolve, dense and immovable.
“I know,” she replies, surprised at how steady her voice sounds.
“Blue’s already tracing,” Evan continues. “This isn’t random. It’s someone testing access. Seeing what sticks.”
“And if it escalates?” she asks.
“Then we respond,” he says. “Not react. Respond.”
Imogen folds her arms. “It feels like bait.”
“It is,” Evan agrees. “Which means we don’t give them what they want.”
Another vibration.
Claire’s screen lights briefly before she locks it again.
Unknown Account.
No text this time.
Just three dots — typing, pausing, typing again — like someone breathing on the other side of the glass.
Lou’s final message lands, decisive as a gavel.
Lou:
All devices logged. Quiet protocol in effect. No one addresses this publicly. We tighten, we don’t scatter.
Eli nods. Imogen sits beside Claire, close enough to touch without asking.
Claire leans back against the headboard, phone face-down in her lap.
This isn’t chaos.
Not yet.
It’s pressure — applied carefully, deliberately — by someone who thinks silence means vulnerability.
Across the city, Evan stands awake in his apartment, phone in hand, jaw set.
He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t call again.
He texts once more, final and steady.
Evan:
I’m here. We’ll hold the line.
Claire reads it, breathes out slowly, and believes him.
Outside, the city keeps humming, unaware that somewhere beneath its noise, a new kind of vigilance has begun — quiet, collective, and ready.
And whoever sent the message has just learned something important:
They’re not alone in this anymore.