July 2nd, 2025.
Hugo Hollands, 24.
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Eddie swung the door open with his usual lack of ceremony, the hallway light cutting across the carpet.
"Why the hell aren't you dressed yet?" he said.
"It's only three," I murmured. "We're not due until nine."
He filled the doorway like he owned it — black suit jacket fitted close across the shoulders, white shirt open at the collar, a thin silver chain glinting against the hollow of his throat. His hair was brushed back but refused to behave, strands falling forward when he moved. He looked sharp, but not corporate — too restless, too alive. The kind of man who could pass for elegant until he opened his mouth.
"I ran into this weirdly good-looking dude downstairs," he said, coming in and tossing his cigarette pack on the table. "Can't remember his name — Clark? Craig? Something with a C. Anyway, he said—" Eddie lifted his hands dramatically, like reading from a spellbook — "'Lighting cue: house at thirty percent, skyline flare seventy, follow at fifty-six hundred K so fire reads warm.' Then walked off like he'd said something normal."
From the window seat, a low voice replied, "Clay."
Corvian didn't look up from the glass, where the skyline shimmered in reflection. Afternoon light slid along the sharp line of his jaw, the dark collar of his shirt framing his stillness. There was something about him — too composed, too precise — that made any room feel smaller once he spoke.
Eddie turned, blinking. "Right. Clay. That's it." He gave Corvian a casual nod, like one does to someone they don't fully trust but can't place why. "You two talk about lighting a lot, or is this a secret language I'm not supposed to get?"
"It's for the performance," I said quickly, stepping between their gazes. "Stage directions."
Eddie grinned. "Yeah, sounds like directions to summon the apocalypse."
Corvian's reflection curved faintly — a smile, maybe, though it never reached his mouth. "Some would argue it's the same thing."
Eddie laughed. "You two are freaks." He dropped into the armchair, legs spread, tapping the cigarette box on his knee. "So what does that even mean, 'house at thirty percent'?"
I picked up the folded cue sheet from the nightstand, running my thumb over the neat black print. No open flame within two meters of linen canopy. Substitute ethanol gel bowls. My throat tightened at the word flame.
"It means lighting adjustments," I said. "They're just trying to make it look like fire without burning anything."
"Why not just use fire?" Eddie said. "Would look cooler."
Corvian's voice cut through softly. "Because people enjoy danger more when it's pretend."
Eddie chuckled, thinking it a joke. "Deep."
But I caught the look in Corvian's eyes — that tiny glint that wasn't humor at all.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward, but heavy. I could hear the city filtering in — distant horns, the rumble of something metallic being dragged across the hotel's loading dock, the whistle of air vents above us. The sound of movement without direction.
Eddie stood finally, stretching, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. "All right, philosopher twins, I'm grabbing us coffee before Clay and his fancy crew start doing their witchcraft upstairs. You better be dressed when I'm back, Hugo. Don't make your manager here lose his mind."
"He's not my manager," I said automatically.
Eddie smirked. "Could've fooled me. The way he looks at you — like he's counting the seconds till you mess up."
I forced a laugh. "You're paranoid."
"Yeah, yeah." He pointed at me as he left. "Ten minutes."
The door shut. The sound of the latch echoed longer than it should have.
Corvian stopped behind me. I could see both of us in the mirror now— my own reflection, pale and restless, and his standing taller, like something that had only learned to imitate flesh.
"Put on the jacket," he said quietly.
I did. His hands brushed my shoulders, adjusting the collar. The contact was cool, almost absent, yet it left my skin tense— not in fear, but in awareness.
"Better," he said. "Now you look like someone who could be believed."
When Corvian stepped back, I caught my reflection again— and for a moment, I didn't recognize the man staring back.
The mirror gave back someone too polished, too sure of himself. My hair fell loosely over my shoulders, glossy black threaded with light; the white of the shirt opened just enough to expose the hollow of my throat and the glint of the piercing resting against my lower lip. The jacket, midnight dark, was etched in fine gold embroidery that caught the glow like small veins of fire. I looked composed, almost serene, a performance of poise held together by breath alone.
It struck me then that the reflection didn't belong to the boy who'd once slept on cardboard under the bridge, teeth chattering against the night. This was someone else—sharp, deliberate, a creature rehearsed for admiration. Even my eyes looked older, carrying a gleam I couldn't place between defiance and disguise.
Corvian's voice came from behind, low and even, the kind that folded softly around the air. "You'll open with confidence. Let them settle before you take their attention. Use the trick you practiced earlier—it's enough to make them doubt their own eyes."
I nodded, unable to look away from myself. "The new one?"
He hummed an assent, a sound closer to agreement than emotion.
Then he moved—quiet steps, deliberate, until he stood behind me. His reflection surfaced in the mirror: taller, framed in black that swallowed the room's light. The fabric of his suit caught a faint sheen, cut to precision, the collar strict against his throat. His posture carried that impossible calm, an elegance sharpened to the point of threat.
Before I could speak, his hand came forward—resting against the side of my neck. His touch was cool at first, not cold, but unsettlingly still. My breath caught; the smallest tremor passed through me.
He leaned closer, pressing against my back. The heat of him came through the thin fabric between us, steady, exact. His other hand hovered near my shoulder, guiding me by nothing more than presence. My pulse stumbled, unsure whether it was fear or something stranger that made it quicken.
The back of my head found the line of his chest, his voice almost at my ear now, closer than thought. "You look splendid," he said. "I trust your stage presence will be just as fascinating. Follow my advice, all right?"
I met his gaze through the mirror—his eyes a dark, celestial abyss, with a muted rim of gold that glowed like the last flicker of a candle dying in glass. Something in them carried weight, not of malice, but of comprehension too vast for a single glance to hold. The space between us thinned, drawn to a quiet gravity. It felt as though the air itself leaned forward to listen.
I nodded—small, almost unwilling—and the gesture broke whatever held me there.
His hand left my throat with the kind of care that made absence louder than touch. He stepped back, soundless, and the mirror caught the motion in fragments: first his silhouette fading from my shoulder, then the faint blur where his reflection had been. The air closed over him slowly, thick with the warmth he had left behind, like breath caught in the glass.
Only I remained—my reflection unsteady, the collar slightly crooked where his fingers had brushed it. My pulse refused to settle. It beat against my ribs in short, uneven bursts, as though trying to climb out of me.
There was a stirring low in my chest, neither fear nor comfort. A tremor that hummed beneath the skin, bright and treacherous, like a spark trying to disguise itself as a heartbeat. I told myself it was only nerves, the thrill before performance, the echo of adrenaline. But it wasn't. It was closer to something alive, a whisper of wanting that didn't know its own name.
He may look human, I thought, but he isn't. Whatever he once was, the shape of it has long since been burned into something unholy.
And yet, even knowing that, the place where his hand had rested still tingled—like the memory of a blessing given by a god who had forgotten what mercy meant.
A knock came at the door just as I finished fixing my cuff.
"Mr. Hollands? They're ready for you. Makeup and prep on the mezzanine."
The voice was polite, almost nervous, the kind used for guests who don't entirely belong.
I took one last look at myself in the mirror. The piercing caught the light, sharp and silver against the softness of my mouth. It was the only thing that still felt like mine. Then I stepped away, leaving the ghost of that image behind, and opened the door.
The hallway outside smelled of powder and polished brass, too clean to feel lived in. The patterned carpet dulled the sound of my shoes as I walked. Every turn of the corridor was lined with framed photographs—dancers mid-spin, tuxedoed performers mid-bow. Their frozen joy followed me down the hall, each smile like a remnant of someone who had once believed they mattered.
When I reached the service elevator, the button glowed a tired yellow under my thumb. I waited, hands in my pockets, trying not to think about Corvian's voice still echoing somewhere in the back of my head. Follow my advice. He said it like a promise, or a threat. I wasn't sure he knew the difference.
The elevator opened with a slow mechanical sigh. Inside, the walls were mirrored too, smaller reflections of the one upstairs—more distorted, less forgiving. My face looked too composed in the blur of the glass, the kind of calm that felt practiced, brittle. I pressed the button for the floor below the roof and watched the numbers descend as if measuring something more than height.
The doors slid open to a corridor already alive with quiet movement. Voices mingled with the distant echo of instruments being tuned. It smelled of stage dust, hairspray, and something like citrus cleaner. A makeshift vanity area had been set up near the open stairwell—rows of folding chairs, bright bulbs, cables curling over the floor like veins.
Someone waved me over. "You're Hugo, right? You're up next."
I nodded and sat. The chair's cushion gave a small sigh beneath my weight.
The makeup artist didn't speak much. A woman, middle-aged, calm in the way only people used to chaos could be. Her hands were light and unhurried. She brushed something along my jaw, smoothed powder across the bridge of my nose, then stepped back to examine her work. The bulbs around the mirror glowed too warmly, bleaching everything in their reach to a kind of fevered gold.
"Your eyes catch the light well," she said absently, tilting my chin toward her. "You'll be fine under stage lamps. Just don't blink too much when they hit the flare."
I managed a small smile. "I'll try."
She moved to adjust a strand of hair that had fallen forward, tucking it behind my ear before I could flinch away. "You nervous?"
"Always."
"Good," she said, almost kindly. "Means you care."
Her voice was practical, but it settled somewhere deeper in me. I wondered if caring was still the right word for what I felt—if it hadn't long since twisted into something else.
Through the half-open stairwell door, I could hear footsteps pacing above, followed by a brief shout, then laughter. Crew members called for lighting tests. Somewhere, someone dropped a clipboard. It was the prelude to performance—the city of movement before the stillness of attention.
I sat there, watching my reflection in the vanity's mirror as she packed away her brushes. Powder clung to the air between us like pollen. My lips looked untouched, though the memory of Corvian's hand on my throat still lingered, as though it had pressed color into the skin itself.
"All set," she said. "They'll call you when we're done with sound."
"Thank you."
I stood and made my way toward the stairwell. The steps wound upward, narrow and steep, the air cooling as I climbed. Somewhere near the top, a door stood propped open, leaking slivers of amber light from the rooftop deck. The wind carried the smell of saltwater from the harbor and the low hum of conversation above.
I paused before stepping through, letting the noise of preparation wash over me. There was a stillness that came just before the act—the kind that sat in the lungs like a held breath. I thought of Corvian again, of his voice behind me, the precision of his touch, the way his reflection had almost replaced mine.
"You'll be fine under stage lamps," the woman had said.
I wasn't sure she knew that the light itself was the danger.
By the time I made it back upstairs, the clock had betrayed me.
It was 7:30.
Somewhere between getting dressed, sitting through makeup, and pretending not to notice the tremor in my own hands, the hours had vanished. Earlier I had thought three o'clock meant abundance, that there'd be time to breathe, to rehearse, to eat maybe. But the world of stages and spotlights doesn't believe in time—it devours it. One moment you're half-dressed in the mirror convincing yourself you're ready, and the next the corridors are alive with voices shouting cues, cables being dragged across floors, and people running as though the whole night could collapse if they stopped moving.
I paced near the corner of the rooftop deck, where the air was sharp and restless. The sea wind caught the edge of my jacket, lifting it like it was trying to make an exit before I could. Below, the hotel's courtyard gleamed, lanterns being tested for the guests' arrival at eight. My stomach felt caught between two clocks—one moving too fast, the other refusing to move at all.
Corvian had vanished somewhere into the swarm of staff. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he wasn't. His absence felt like a weight in the air, too deliberate to be coincidence.
"You're up for sound, Mr. Hollands!" a technician called from across the deck.
The technician guided me toward the stage with a brisk nod. A tangle of wires framed the floor, curling toward a small receiver fixed beside the stairs. He handed me a slim earpiece, the kind that curved behind the ear like a secret.
"Mic's built in," he said, adjusting the wire that ran beneath my collar. "We'll test it through the in-ears. Just speak normally."
I fitted the piece into place. It felt light but intimate, a whisper of metal against skin. The moment he switched it on, I could hear everything—the shuffling of the crew, the low throb of music testing from a far speaker, my own breathing made strange through the feedback.
"Can you hear me?" the technician's voice came, disembodied, through the static.
"Yeah," I said, and the echo of it hit back immediately, crisp and unfamiliar.
"Perfect. Try a sentence or two."
I cleared my throat. "This is Hugo Hollands. If this works, I'd like to go home before midnight."
A few soft laughs came from the sound booth across the deck. The man's voice returned, light with approval. "All right, we're good. Unfortunately, we don't have time for rehearsal. Guests are already on their way, so if there's anything you need, let us know."
I pulled the earpiece free and shrugged, too tired to care. "All good," I muttered.
The air beyond the stage was restless—staff weaving through each other, trays of glasses glinting as waiters hurried past, lighting crews barking numbers. The skyline had sunk into bruised blue, the sea below it stirring against the wind. I was ready to leave the noise for a minute, to breathe without the static still ringing in my head.
I'd just stepped off the stage when Clay appeared, cutting through the rush like someone used to being obeyed. He moved with that same practiced ease he'd worn at the bar weeks ago—measured smile, voice smoothed for diplomacy.
"Hugo," he said, reaching me before I could turn. His hands came down on my arms, firm, too familiar. "I'm so sorry about the delay. Everything's been chaos tonight."
"Whatever," I said, shaking him off. "Let's just get this over with."
I turned toward the door, but his hand caught my arm again, harder this time. "I apologized," he said, voice low, clipped. "Stop sulking. Did you need the rehearsal so badly?"
I met his eyes. "It's called respect for the artist, Clay. I thought as an events manager—or whatever your title is—you'd know that."
His expression cracked, just slightly, something defensive flashing behind the practiced calm.
Eddie's voice came from somewhere behind us, quick and wary. "What's going on?"
I didn't answer. The words were already moving through me, sharp and certain. "You thought because you brought me up from the South, I'd accept whatever treatment you handed me?"
Clay lifted his hands as though fending off a blow. "Come on, don't flip it like that. We really ran out of time." He checked his watch, breath shallow with irritation. "Guests are arriving in fifteen minutes, and I'm here trying to make it right. It matters to me that you aren't upset."
The sincerity in his tone might've fooled anyone else. I almost laughed.
I gave him a thin smile instead, the kind that didn't reach my eyes. "We'll see how it goes in front of your guests."
Then I walked off, the sound of his breath catching behind me, Eddie falling into step beside me without a word. The hallway beyond the deck stretched out like a reprieve—quiet, lamplit, the sea air pushing softly through the open door. But the sting of Clay's touch lingered on my arm, and beneath the noise of my pulse there was another rhythm altogether, quieter, older, one that seemed to hum somewhere beneath the surface of my skin.
The backstage room was smaller than I expected—windowless, lit by a single overhead fixture that hummed like it had outlived its patience. The air smelled of fabric steam and nerves. A line of spare costumes hung along one wall, glimmering faintly in their plastic covers. My reflection sat fractured across the vanity mirrors, multiplied versions of myself staring back, waiting.
Eddie followed me in, shutting the door with his foot. He slouched into one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, eyes darting around the room like he was trying to place himself somewhere in all of it.
"Where's your friend?" he asked, tone light but curious in that way that never really was.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Not sure."
Eddie rubbed his jaw. "How'd you really meet him?"
I hesitated, then leaned against the table. "At a bar. After I came back from the mountains." I caught my reflection in the mirror again, faint beneath the glare of light. "I was shaking bad. Couldn't stop. I went in for a drink—something to make it stop—and he was there."
Eddie tilted his head, frowning slightly. "That's weird, though. He's really weird. I don't know if he likes me, or if he hates me, or what the fuck his problem is. But whatever, man. Whatever you find suitable for you, I don't get a say in that."
I turned to him, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Thank you for coming. Really. I know this isn't your scene."
He grunted. "Yeah, well, I figured you'd start a riot if nobody showed up."
"I mean it," I said. "I really do want to pay you back. For all of it. You and Poppy both. Once I cash out the rest of the money, she's getting every pound she lent me back. And after tonight, there'll be more gigs. Bigger ones." I exhaled, feeling the weight of the words before they even left me. "I'll be bigger. I promise."
Eddie smiled—tired but real. "This is gonna be my first time seeing you perform, you know."
"You refused to come to the one at the bar," I reminded him.
He groaned. "I was angry. I didn't like any of this back then."
"You were too angry to come support your friend," I said, half teasing, half honest.
He shot me a look. "No, no, no, don't start that guilt-trip shit with me. I was angry, period. Angry at you." He leaned forward, his eyes steady now. "And it had nothing to do with me not wanting to support you. You get that, Hugo?"
I looked at him for a long moment, the air between us settling. "Yeah," I said softly. "I get it."
Eddie's expression shifted, the edge of it melting into something gentler. "You drive people mad, you know that?"
"Yeah."
"But you're also kind of impossible not to root for."
That caught me off guard. I laughed under my breath. "That's the nicest insult you've ever given me."
He stood, came to stand beside me. In the mirror, we looked like two different timelines of the same mistake—him solid, worn by the world; me still pretending to outgrow it. He rested a hand briefly on my shoulder.
"Don't screw this up," he said, voice softer now. "Not because of the money. Just—don't burn yourself out chasing whatever the hell this is. You've already done that once."
I nodded, the lump in my throat unexpected. "Yeah. I'll try."
The backstage light flickered once, catching the shine of my piercing. For a second, neither of us spoke. It was quiet enough to hear the ocean through the walls, the muffled rhythm of waves rolling beneath the city's noise.
Eddie finally squeezed my shoulder and let go. "I'll be out front. Don't make me regret not drinking through this."
I smiled. "You won't."
He gave me one last look, something between pride and worry, before stepping out. The door closed behind him, leaving the room dim again. I sat for a while, listening to the muffled movement outside, the rising chatter of the arriving crowd.
For the first time that evening, I felt something steady—something like belonging, fragile and undeserved, but real enough to make me breathe easier.