Thirteen 🍀 - Starlight Shadows

Morning — Quiet, Not Claimed

Claire wakes to light rather than sound.

It spills through the blinds in pale bands, catching dust in the air, warming the sheets. Evan’s apartment is unfamiliar in the way borrowed places are—close enough to feel safe, distant enough to feel temporary. His side of the bed is empty now, the mattress cooler where he’s already been up.

She turns her head and exhales slowly.

Last night hadn’t been rushed. That mattered. No spectacle, no urgency to define anything. Just a long, careful unfolding—conversation first, closeness after. A sense of arriving somewhere without needing to announce it.

The alarm on his phone buzzes once on the nightstand.

She reaches to silence it, smiling when she sees the time. Early. Of course it is.

Evan reappears from the kitchen, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, a mug in his hand. He stops when he sees she’s awake.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

“Morning,” she replies, sitting up and pulling the sheet around herself. The movement feels natural, unguarded.

He sets the mug down and leans against the doorframe, studying her with that calm, unreadable expression she’s learned means he’s thinking carefully.

“I leave in two hours,” he says.

She nods. “I know.”

No drama in it. Just fact.

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then he reaches out, fingers brushing her wrist—light, deliberate.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he says. “But I don’t want it to feel like something that only exists at night, either.”

Claire meets his gaze. “It doesn’t.”

That seems to steady him.

“Good,” he says. “Then we’ll do this the way we do everything else. With space. And intention.”

She smiles. “You sound like you’re drafting a tour memo.”

He laughs under his breath. “Occupational hazard.”

They stand together by the door when it’s time for him to go. No lingering. No promises stretched too thin.

“Text me when you wake properly,” he says.

“I will.”

“See you soon.”

“See you.”

The door closes softly behind him.

Departure — Control Without Noise

The private airstrip hums with quiet efficiency.

Cases are loaded. Crew moves with practiced ease. Infinity Line gathers near the stairs, half-awake but focused.

Evan boards last.

Daniel Han walks beside him, tablet tucked under his arm.

“Mara’s out,” Daniel says without preamble. “Officially. Legal’s tying off loose ends. No public spectacle.”

Evan nods. “Good.”

“She’s still making calls.”

“I know.”

“We’ll contain it.”

Evan pauses at the foot of the stairs, looking out across the tarmac. “Not by crushing her,” he says. “By making her irrelevant.”

Daniel smiles faintly. “Already in motion.”

Once seated, Evan takes out his phone and types a short message.

Wheels up. I’ll call when I land. Last night mattered. — E

He sends it, then turns his phone off as the engines begin to whine.

Claire — After the Door Closes

Back in her own apartment, Claire changes slowly, grounding herself in routine. Coffee. A shower. Her bracelet rests on the sink, then goes back on her wrist without thought.

Imogen is already awake, scrolling furiously.

“You seen the memo?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“So she’s really gone.”

“Yes.”

Imogen exhales. “Good.”

Claire doesn’t say what she’s thinking—that people like Mara don’t disappear, they adapt. But she also knows something has shifted. Power doesn’t need to announce itself when it’s solid.

Her phone buzzes.

Lou: We have confirmation. New director steps in today. Eyes open, but you’re protected.

Claire replies with a simple Thank you.

She looks out the window once more, toward Evan’s building across the way.

Distance now. Movement. But not disappearance.

Mara — Last Moves

Mara reads the memo alone.

She’s already poured the wine before she finishes the second paragraph.

Creative restructuring. Immediate effect. No role transition.

She laughs once—short, sharp.

Then she makes her calls.

Most don’t answer.

One does.

“Lucas,” she says softly. “I just need you to listen.”

She never sounds angry. Never desperate.

Only wounded.

“They’re rewriting the story,” she continues. “And you know who gets erased first when that happens.”

She lets the silence stretch.

A hook doesn’t need force. It only needs timing.

Departure — Control Without Theatre

The private airstrip hums with quiet precision.

Cases roll. Crew moves. Infinity Line boards without ceremony.

Evan lingers near the steps as Daniel Han joins him, tablet tucked under one arm.

“She’s out,” Daniel says. “Official. Legal’s sealing it clean.”

Evan nods. “Containment?”

“Already happening.”

“No spectacle,” Evan adds. “No vendettas.”

Daniel smiles faintly. “Just consequence.”

That’s enough.

Once seated, Evan types a single message before powering down.

Wheels up. Talk soon. Last night mattered. — E

The engines roar.

Claire — After the Door Closes

Claire moves through the morning deliberately.

Shower. Coffee. The bracelet slides back onto her wrist without thought.

Imogen is already awake, phone in hand. “Memo dropped. She’s gone.”

“I know.”

“Gone-gone?”

“Yes.”

Relief flickers—but Claire doesn’t relax completely. Mara doesn’t vanish. She redirects.

Lou’s message confirms it minutes later: New director in. Contracts locked. Stay alert.

Claire looks out toward Evan’s building across the way.

Distance, now. But not loss.

Mara — The Hook

Mara reads the memo alone.

No warnings. No soft landing.

Creative restructuring. Immediate effect.

She doesn’t scream. She pours wine.

Then she calls Lucas.

On the seventh ring, he answers.

“Lucas,” she says softly. “I just need you to listen.”

She never sounds angry. Never desperate.

Only betrayed.

“They’re rewriting everything,” she murmurs. “And you know who disappears first when that happens.”

Silence stretches.

“The twins? Viral because of my edits. The album talks? Real. Obsidian Pulse still wants you—me—together. Control you won’t get at APG.”

He hesitates. “They said you were manipulating—”

“They’re afraid,” she replies gently. “Of you choosing for yourself.”

A pause.

The hook sets—not because she pushes, but because she waits.

When the line stays open, Mara smiles into her glass.

One thread still loose is all you need.

Lucas doesn’t hang up right away.

He keeps the phone in his hand long after the call ends, screen dark, his reflection faint and warped in the glass. Mara’s voice still lingers—soft, injured, persuasive in the way only someone who has rehearsed vulnerability can be.

He knows what she’s after.

Not him.
Not really.

Information.

She wants to know what changed.

What clauses locked.
What flexibilities vanished.
What Apex Prism pulled back under its own umbrella once she was removed from the table.

Mara was never just a manager—she was a broker. Always lining deals that glittered just out of reach. You could be global. You could be untouchable. The Nike ambassador pitch. The influencer trajectory. The comparison to athletes, not actors. If she could have delivered it cleanly, she would have already done it.

Instead, the trail always curved sideways—toward opposition labels, shadow partnerships, leverage plays that looked like opportunity until you stood still long enough to see the drop.

Lucas exhales slowly.

He’s not naïve. He understands why he once listened.

Strike did too.

Strike was always reaching—testing the edges, pushing toward something bigger, louder, faster. Lucas had admired that hunger. Even loved it, in its way. But hunger without structure burns everything around it.

Apex Prism is structure.

Generational structure.

That’s the difference Mara never sold honestly. These contracts aren’t fireworks—they’re scaffolding. Long-term growth, slow escalation, protections that don’t make headlines but keep careers alive when trends turn.

And he knows it now.

He’s a good actor. He knows how to read a room, how to land a moment. But without the right script—without a system that understands longevity—talent becomes disposable. Viral one year, forgotten the next.

He thinks of Jiy-eon.

How tightly she held onto Mara’s promises.
How blind loyalty blurred into dependence.
How quickly that grip became a liability.

Neon Pulse is cracking, and everyone can feel it.

Someone will be blamed.

Someone always is.

Lucas swallows.

As long as she doesn’t make me the scapegoat.

That’s the calculation now. Not ambition—survival with integrity intact.

He still cares about Strike. That hasn’t changed. But caring doesn’t mean following someone off a ledge. Strike has already been boxed out by contracts he can’t break, by protections that aren’t personal—they’re procedural.

Lucas understands boundaries when they’re drawn in ink.

And his are clear now.

He won’t feed Mara anything she can weaponize.
He won’t cross lines that can’t be uncrossed.
He won’t mistake watching for colluding.

If she wants to burn something down to stay warm, it won’t be him.

He sets the phone down at last.

Plays along on the surface.
Keeps his distance underneath.

And hopes—quietly, pragmatically—that when the fallout comes, he’s standing far enough away to be missed by the blast.