Chapter 1 #4
Mina closes her eyes for a beat, like she’s listening with something other than ears. Then she shakes her head. “No. It’s… quiet.”
Blaire nods once, decision made. She turns back to Han, who’s hovering at the edge of the stage with polite concern that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Please inform the Council we want another sweep of the rafters and catwalks,” Blaire says.
Han’s jaw tightens. The smallest flare of irritation—like being asked to re-check work she’s already blessed. “It’s unnecessary.”
“Do it anyway,” Blaire replies, still smooth. Not loud. Not rude. Just immovable.
A beat.
Han exhales through her nose and gives a clipped nod. “Fine. I’ll relay the request.”
“And tell the Council,” Blaire adds, as if she’s offering a favor, “we’re ready for the briefing as soon as they are.”
Director Han nods once and turns on her heel, already pulling out a phone—no doubt to relay Blaire’s “requests” like they’re her idea.
I still don’t know where the exact hierarchy falls—whether Blaire technically outranks her in Eon’s ecosystem, or whether Han just assumes she does because she’s attached to us and we’re valuable.
But I’ve watched Blaire walk into rooms full of people with titles and make them adjust their posture without raising her voice.
She has leverage. She knows it. And she isn’t above using it.
I respect it.
Mina exhales, shoulders dropping like she’s been holding herself upright by force.
Jules steps closer and bumps her hip gently. “Hey. You’re okay.”
Mina’s mouth twitches. “Am I?”
Remy’s voice is low, almost kind. “If you saw something, you saw something. Don’t let them make you feel stupid.”
Blaire claps once, crisp. “Alright. Soundcheck done. Go drink water. Council briefing in fifteen.”
Jules salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Remy’s attention doesn’t leave the rafters even as she follows us offstage.
One of the security guards leads the way. We file down a corridor toward the green room area, the air colder here, concrete sweating faintly. Festival posters line the walls—Midnight Halo faces everywhere, bright and fierce, smiling.
My own face looks back at me in glossy perfection.
I hate her a little.
We pass a staff entrance with a window that looks out toward the parking lot and, beyond it, a sliver of street. For a second, I catch sight of a familiar diner sign in the distance—red letters, one bulb dead.
The Lighthouse Diner.
My chest tightens.
I force my gaze away.
Don’t look her up.
Don’t.
Because if Evie is still here like I suspect—if she’s still in this town, living her life within reach of me—
I don’t trust myself not to reach back.
The thought is a hook in my ribs.
I swallow it down like I’ve swallowed worse.
In the green room, Jules immediately raids the snack table with the determination of someone preparing for war. Remy drops into a chair like she’s been unplugged, still scanning the ceiling corners. Mina sits near her, curling her hands into her sleeves like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
I obediently reach for a bottle of water, drinking some as I stare at the snack table—neat rows of Eon-approved fuel in glossy wrappers.
For no reason that makes sense, I want kimbap so badly it hurts.
Not the fancy kind. The simple foil-wrapped rolls my mom used to make on festival mornings: sesame oil, salty seaweed, the sharp bite of pickled radish. The kind she’d press into my hands before a big day and say, Eat first.
Jules rips open a protein bar with her teeth. “If the Council makes us do another ‘grounding exercise’ in a room that smells like incense, I’m suing.”
Remy’s mouth twitches. “You can’t sue the Council.”
“That’s what they want you to think,“ Jules says, already digging for something salty. “Eon at least gives you a hotline and a latte if you’re having a breakdown.”
Mina murmurs, “Eon gives you a latte so you can keep smiling on camera.”
Jules points at her with a cracker. “Okay, valid. But also: latte.”
I swallow another mouthful of water.
Mina is right though.
Eon Entertainment is technically our label. They handle the world everyone sees: tours, contracts, cameras, the manufactured mythology of Midnight Halo. They build the stage, sell the story, count the profit.
The Council handles what the world can’t see: training, wards, intel, containment. Weapons. Cleanup. The things that happen when the emotional power plant of a crowd turns into an open door.
Two entities, one machine. And we’re the moving part that makes it run.
Jules sighs dramatically. “I miss when my biggest problem was whether my eyeliner was even.”
“You say that,” I mutter, “but you cried for ten minutes when our makeup shipment got delayed in Tokyo.”
Jules gasps, affronted. “That was a spiritual injury.”
I keep my expression flat, but something tight eases in my chest anyway. This is what we do: joke until the dread gets bored and goes away.
We’ve had all of five minutes to ourselves when Blaire arrives, phone in hand, listening to an update through her headset. Her face remains calm, but the line between her brows deepens. It’s less than two minutes later when she ends the call and points two fingers toward us.
“Briefing room. Now.”
The hallway to the briefing room is narrower, more official. Less festival glitter, more laminated signs and security guards. An Eon representative meets us at the door. He’s a man in a sleek suit with a company pin, and a smile polished to a mirror shine.
“Midnight Halo,” he says warmly. “Thank you for your quick cooperation. I’m Devin Park, talent relations. The Council is inside.”
Jules leans toward Mina and whispers, “Talent relations sounds like a job where you say ‘we value you’ while actively not valuing you.”
Mina whispers back, “Shh.”
But she smiles softly again, which has Jules grinning.
I ignore them and step into the room.
The conference room is small and windowless. Someone has tried to make it friendly—there’s a tray of fruit, a plate of pastries, a carafe of coffee—but the air feels thick.
Three people are already seated at the table when we walk in. They have that particular stillness of people who believe the world runs on rules and that they are the ones holding the rulebook.
One is Director Han. Another is an older man in signature council gray clothes, hair shaved close, eyes sharp behind thin-framed glasses.
Eric Cohen, one of the leaders at the Council.
I’ve seen him twice before, both times when something went very, very wrong. The last is clearly a Council Handler.
“Kaia Rhee. Midnight Halo. Thank you for coming promptly.”
“Of course,” I say, voice steady. “Thank you for having us again, Mr. Cohen.”
“We’ll be brief. But please, sit,” he says.
We sit. I keep my back straight and my hands folded, the way I’ve been trained to look calm even when my pulse is climbing.
Blaire takes the seat closest to Mina. Not between us and them, but near enough to intervene if needed. Blaire’s good like that. Even though she works for Eon, she genuinely has our backs too.
“First, allow me to say what an honor it is to have Midnight Halo perform at Harbor’s Edge,” Devin says as he takes a seat beside the Handler. “This is a special event—for Eon, for the town, for your fans.”
“And for the Council,” Eric Cohen adds. “Given the… patterns we have observed.”
There it is.
I lace my fingers together under the table.
Mr. Cohen continues, “Demon activity has increased in the Harbor’s Edge region in the last three weeks. Not isolated incidents—patterned.”
“We’re confident your kickoff concert will address the buildup,” Devin cuts in smoothly. Annoyance flashes across Mr. Cohen’s face at being cut off, but Devin continues. “Tonight’s show is designed to be both a celebration and a containment measure. You’ve done this before.”
Containment.
Eric Cohen, ever the serious Councilman, nods. “As you know, your concert is not simply entertainment. It is your job. Harbor Lights draws emotion. Tonight’s performance is meant to address the issue and prevent manifestation before the festival begins.”
“We’ve prepared a brief,” Director Han says, sliding her tablet onto the table and tapping the screen. The wall behind her lights up with a projection: a map of Harbor’s Edge, dots of red scattered around the bay and city center.
“You all know Harbor Lights is a high-emotion event,” she says. “Wishes, nostalgia, community. For as long as anyone can remember, that festival has been a beacon.”
“For demons,” Remy says dryly.
Han doesn’t deny it. “Yes. Historically, we saw sporadic manifestations—small, localized, easy to disperse. But in the last year, we’ve tracked a new pattern.”
She taps again. Some of the red dots swell into nodes, connected by faint lines.
“We’re calling it the Chorus,” she says. “An echo that keeps coming back. This manifestation forms around repetition—chants, songs, jingles. Think of it as… the town’s nostalgia growing a mouth.”
Mina makes a face. “Gross.”
Jules leans forward, frowning. “We’ve fought manifestations like that before.”
“Yes. You encountered one in Seoul last year. So as you know, the Chorus is not a single entity in the way a typical demon is,” Director Han continues. “And this variation seems particularly attached to nostalgia.”
My stomach drops a fraction.
Because Harbor’s Edge is the perfect buffet for it, if that’s the case. People come back here to feel like they’re sixteen again. Like nothing bad ever happened. Like love didn’t leave.
Like leaving wasn’t necessary…
“Now it’s here,” Director Han says, bringing up another slide.
This one is a timeline, spikes in red clustered more and more tightly around recent dates.
“In the last three months, we’ve seen a significant uptick in minor incidents across Harbor’s Edge.
Whispering static in the lighthouse. Unexplained feedback at the local station.
A near-stampede at a community concert when the PA system glitched into a loop. ”