Chapter 1 #5
The image shifts again: security camera footage, grainy, of a busy street crossing. For half a second, the silhouettes of pedestrians blur, all their heads turning in the same direction, mouths open as if singing.
Then it’s gone.
That’s how it usually looks to civilians, if it looks like anything at all.
Most fans can’t actually see the demons.
Not the way we do. If you don’t have a Spark, if you haven’t been trained to tune your senses to the frequency, the supernatural slides past your brain like a skipped frame.
You register it as static, nausea, or a bad feeling you can’t quite place.
.. Or you don’t register it at all—until something gets close enough to leave a scar in your nervous system, and then you start seeing shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows.
“Harbor Lights is in three days,” Devin adds. “That amount of focused emotional energy will draw the Chorus like a magnet. We would prefer not to cancel the event, for obvious reasons.”
The obvious reasons being ticket sales, tourism revenue, good PR for both Eon and the council.
“And the less obvious reasons,” Eric Cohen says, shooting him a look, “being that even if we cancel the festival, residents will still gather. The Chorus will still feed. This time we will stop it once and for all during your performance tonight.”
Jules is the first to speak. Of course she is. “How?”
Eric Cohen’s eyes stay steady. “Tonight’s homecoming concert is a controlled release. The back to your roots energy should draw it’s attention. The wards will trap it. They have been updated by Mr. Bane here.”
For the first time, all of us actually look at the man sitting beside Cohen.
A Council Handler.
Handlers are a specialized unit inside the Council, Resonants whose Sparks don’t flare into song or movement or light—whose resonance is tuned to one thing: containment. Hard lines. Seals. Circles that hold. When they’re near, magic doesn’t wake so much as it… obeys.
Like the world remembers there are rules and gets scared of breaking them.
Mr. Bane looks like someone pressed flat by years of quiet work. Tall, narrow, dressed in a dark, unwrinkled coat. His hands are gloved, fingers long and precise. His eyes don’t catch the light the way ours do; they drink it in, dull and unreadable.
My skin always crawls around Handlers.
Even Jules—who never misses an opportunity to run her mouth—goes quiet, like she’s suddenly remembered what predators are.
Mr. Bane doesn’t speak.
He only inclines his head once, a minimal acknowledgment
Blaire’s voice cuts in, polite and firm. “We had a report on stage. Mina saw something in the rafters. Could this be the Chorus?” “
Both Mr. Cohen and Mr. Bane’s gazes turn towards Mina immediately. Devin’s smile tightens by a degree.
Mina flushes. “It was only a second. A shadow. It was… big.”
Mr. Cohen writes something down. “We will increase the sweep teams. But understand: the Chorus often does not appear as a single figure. It is a phenomenon. A pattern. It can gather in places where memory is thick.”
Harbor’s Edge has memory thick enough to drown in.
Suddenly, the receipt in my pocket feels like a hot coal.
“The scanners didn’t show any entities in the arena,” Director Han adds.
“Residual stress from the tour,” Devin says dismissively to Director Han. “They have been working non-stop.” His attention turns to Mina. “I’m sure once you’ve had a proper rest, Miss Mina, your… impressions will settle.”
Mina slumps in her chair, cheeks flushing. Jules shoots me a look that clearly says she is not making this up.
Remy doesn’t speak, but her eyes are cold. She gets like that, trusts very few people.
Director Han’s gaze settles on me. “Kaia. You will lead the mission. You will keep your team grounded. Your setlist—“
”—Is already approved,“ Devin cuts in quickly, as if to reassure everyone that paperwork exists to keep the universe orderly.
Han’s mouth tightens, like she dislikes being cut off, but she continues. “Your setlist must emphasize forward motion. Renewal. Release. Avoid songs that fixate on regret.”
Jules makes a face. “So… no sad bangers.”
I keep my expression neutral, but my throat tightens.
Avoid songs that fixate on regret.
If the universe had a sense of humor, it would be cruel enough to put me in my hometown and tell me not to sing about regret and longing.
Instead, I nod. Leader smile, leader composure.
“Understood,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “Then let’s talk optics.”
Of course.
She brings up a slide with our faces on it, overlaid with Harbor Lights branding. “Publicly, this is a nostalgic ‘back to roots’ special. Hometown girl returns as conquering hero. We want warmth, authenticity, community.”
She looks at me when she says hometown girl, like I’m supposed to feel special instead of vaguely nauseous.
“We’ve lined up a pre-show interview with the local station,” she continues. “Kaia, they’ll ask about growing up here, your memories of Harbor Lights. Play up the sense of longing, but not regret. You made good. Everyone loves you. You owe it all to the support of the town. That sort of thing.”
My fingers twitch toward my pocket again, toward the folded receipt with Evie’s handwriting on it.
I don’t owe it all to the town.
I owe it to one girl who kissed me on a pier and accidentally lit up the harbor.
“Any questions?” Director Han asks.
Surprisingly, Blaire asks, “And if Mina Sees anything again?”
Mr. Cohen answers, “If something manifests, you will act. That is why you exist.”
The words are meant as reassurance.
They land like a weight.
Director Han regains control by standing. She says with a bright smile, “Rest up, then. Rehearsals at ten, soundcheck at two. Showtime at eight.”
We file out of the room in silence that feels too tight.
The hallway outside is colder. Or maybe that’s just my skin.
Mina’s voice is small. “What if I see it again?”
I stop walking.
They all stop with me, instinctively. A little cluster in the sterile corridor, four women with too much power and not enough certainty.
I look at Mina—really look.
Mina is brave in a quiet way. She feels things before they have names. That doesn’t make her fragile. It makes her a warning bell. Unfortunately, outside of us and Blaire, Eon and the Council rarely take it seriously unless their machines go off too.
“If you see it again,” I say, low and steady, “you tell us immediately. You don’t talk yourself out of it. I don’t care if no one else sees it. We trust each other.”
I glance at Remy and Jules, before looking at Mina again.
Mina’s eyes shine a little. “Okay.”
Jules nods hard, as if agreeing with her whole body. “Yeah. Mina sees weird stuff. That’s literally her brand.”
Remy adds, barely audible, “And we believe you.”
I keep my face calm, but inside my chest something shifts.
“Alright,” I say. “We do what we always do. Warmups. Rest. Dinner. Then we burn it clean.”
Jules lifts her hands like she’s presenting a prayer. “Burn it clean.”
Mina repeats softly, “Burn it clean.”
Remy’s voice is a low promise. “Burn it.”
Blaire’s voice drifts from a few steps behind, already back in manager mode. “And stay hydrated,” she calls. “If any of you get possessed because you refused electrolytes, I will be beyond annoyed.”
Jules laughs despite everything. “Not the electrolyte demon—“
We move again.
As we pass another window, the town flashes by outside—wet streets, festival banners, a glimpse of the boardwalk.
And, in the distance, that diner sign again.
The Lighthouse Diner.
My fingers press the receipt through the fabric of my pocket until the paper creases.
A thought rises anyway, uninvited: What if she’s there? What if she’s grown into someone I don’t recognize? What if she sees my face on every poster and hates me for it?
I shut it down the way I’ve practiced shutting down pain onstage.
Clean. Fast. Brutal.
Evie is better off without me reopening anything.
Tonight is about the show.
Tonight is about protecting this town.
Tonight is about being the global pop star group Midnight Halo.