Chapter 3 #3
For a moment, I stand there breathing hard, staring at the empty spot where the thing had been, trying not to think about how quickly my mind had jumped to Evie.
At the edge of the circle, the Handler gives a single approving nod. Director Han’s mouth tightens in that way that means good, contained, and Eric Cohen offers one spare clap like he’s signing off on a report. Blaire nods once from the wings, eyes on us, not the suits.
Voltstep vanishes as Jules flicks her wrists and throws up jazz hands. “We’re amazing.”
Inkthorn disappears next as Remy says, “We’re practiced.”
Mina doesn’t laugh. She’s staring—too still—past us into the arena bowl. I follow her gaze without meaning to.
“What?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“There,” Mina whispers, pointing with Heartglass.
My breath stops on instinct, my body bracing for impact—
—but when I follow her line of sight, I get… nothing. Empty seats. Shadow. The normal dark mouth of an arena waiting to be filled.
“I don’t—” Jules squints hard, head tilting. “I don’t see anything.”
Remy’s gaze narrows, not at the seats—at Mina. Like she’s tracking Mina’s pulse instead of a target.
Mina’s grip tightens on Heartglass until her knuckles go pale. “It’s up there. Back rows. It’s—” She swallows. “It’s clapping.”
Jules’s face changes. That quick, bright confidence flickers into something unsettled. “Clapping,” she repeats, like the word tastes wrong. “Like… applause?”
Mina nods once, sharp. “No sound. Just—” Her shoulders rise, a tiny flinch. “Hands. And it’s doing it like it’s… enjoying this.”
A cold thread slides down my spine. I don’t need to see it to hate the shape of that.
Jules’s mouth twists. “Great. Love that. Love a non-audible horror clap.”
I force my eyes to cut the darkness into sections, trying to find it. Still nothing. Still emptiness. And that’s the worst part—knowing something can be watching and your senses are just… shut out.
Blaire’s voice crackles in my in-ear, brisk and controlled. “Nice work. Hydrate. We’re holding schedule.”
I don’t answer with the automatic copy.
I say, “Blaire. Mina’s seeing it again.”
A beat. I can practically hear Blaire’s brain shift gears.
“Where,” she asks, clipped.
“Back rows,” I say, gaze locked on the dark. “She says it’s clapping.”
Jules makes a strangled sound that is halfway between a laugh and a swear. “Yeah. Like we’re entertaining.”
Mina’s voice is tight. “I’m not joking.”
“I know,” I say immediately.
I can’t hear what happens on Blaire’s end, but out of the corner of my eye I see her straighten in the wings. She turns toward Director Han and Devin—head angled, hand lifting in that subtle come here motion she does when she’s about to apply pressure.
They step in closer to her. Blaire speaks without her mic picking up in my in-ears, which means she’s deliberately keeping it off our channel.
Great.
Devin steps onto the stage edge a moment later with a strained smile, palms out like he’s calming children. “Alright. Let’s not panic. This is a controlled environment. Wards are up. Council is present. Mina, sometimes heightened sensitivity—”
Mina’s face flushes, anger and embarrassment colliding. “I really saw something, Mr. Park.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t,” Devin says quickly, but his tone tries to. Smooth, dismissive around the edges.
Remy’s stare stays flat. “You implied it.”
My gaze cuts to Devin like a blade. “We need to take this seriously. Mina’s never wrong.”
Devin’s smile tightens. “Of course. But we need to keep the team focused. If Mina fixates on—”
“Fixates,” Remy repeats softly, like she’s tasting the word. “You sure you want to use that one?”
Devin blinks, thrown off balance.
Before it can turn into a full-on argument, Director Han steps forward. She’s all calm polish and practiced authority, like she’s smoothing a wrinkle out of a suit.
“Enough,” Han says, mild. “Mina, thank you for flagging it. We’ll run an additional sweep and cross-check the monitors.” Her eyes flick, briefly, to the handler and then to Eric Cohen.
The exchange is fast—too fast to be anything but communication.
And there’s something in it I don’t like. A shared look.
Han turns back to us with the same calm. “Nothing unusual is currently registering on the wards. That doesn’t mean you didn’t feel something. It means, at this moment, we don’t have corroboration.”
Devin seizes the opening like oxygen. “Tonight’s show needs to proceed,” he says, as if that’s the only real sentence in the room. “We can’t spiral over shadows.”
Han gives a small nod, like she’s agreeing with inevitability, not desire. “The performance proceeds. We increase monitoring.”
Because it has to.
Because the alternative is letting the Chorus roam free through Harbor’s Edge with no containment.
“Great,” Devin said, relief slipping through his professionalism. “Perfect. That’s what I needed to hear.”
I nod once, even though my skin still feels too tight.
Aurora dissolves from my grip, light unwinding into nothing, and I force my hands not to shake as I step off my mark—already hearing that silent clap in my head, whether I saw it or not.
***
In the dressing room corridor, the festival posters have multiplied again.
Midnight Halo faces stare down from every wall—perfect skin, fierce eyes, glittering costumes that make us look like angels instead of women.
There’s an old Council superstition about that, too—whispered in training halls and pinned into glossy recruitment language when they think you need a myth to survive the work. Resonants are touched. Part angel, built to carry light without burning up.
I’ve never bought it.
Jules stops in front of a poster and squints at her own face. “Do you think they’d notice if I drew little mustaches on these?”
Remy doesn’t break stride. “I would.”
Mina hugs her hoodie tighter. “Please don’t get in trouble before the show.”
Jules leans closer to Mina, voice turning syrupy. “For you, my moonbeam, I will behave.”
Mina rolls her eyes, but it softens her expression, just a fraction.
I watch them, grateful for the banter, for the normalcy they manufacture out of habit.
Then my chest tightens as a memory slams into me anyway: open mic night at Harbor Lights a lifetime ago. The rickety town stage. My hands shaking. The mic too big in my grip.
Evie in the front row, eyes bright, laughing like the world can’t touch her.
Cheering the loudest.
Believing in me before anyone else does.
Believing in me so fiercely it feels like a blessing.
And then I left her with nothing but the echo…
My fingers drift toward my pocket automatically.
Receipt.
The list.
breathe (yes you have lungs. use them.)
So I do. I swallow hard, breathe, and keep walking.
***
My dressing room is small and too clean, like all arenas try to scrub the humanity out of their backstage spaces.
There’s a long mirror rimmed with bulbs. A counter already crowded with glossy promo photos Eon has placed there—my face, Jules’, Mina’s, Remy’s, all in high-definition perfection. A rack of costumes hangs to one side, garment bags labeled with Sharpie.
The air smells faintly of hairspray and lemons.
Someone has put a bowl of fruit on the counter like we’re going to eat grapes between killing demons.
I shut the door behind me and lean my forehead against it for one long breath.
The quiet presses in.
My pulse slows.
A different kind of ache rises in my throat: the one that comes when I stop moving long enough to feel.
I cross to the counter and stare at the idol photos.
Kaia Rhee, Midnight Halo. The girl who burns demons. The hometown hero. The one who comes back with lights and glory.
The one who leaves and never looks back, my own traitorous mind reminds me.
My hand slides into my bag and finds what I packed before we left the hotel.
A photo.
Faded at the edges, creased down the middle, colors softened by time.
Two teenagers on the Harbor Lights pier, lanterns glowing behind us.
Evie with wind-tossed hair and a grin too sharp for her own good, leaning into me like she belongs there.
Me with my arm half-raised like I don’t know what to do with my body, smiling like I’ve just been handed the sun.
We look… happy.
We look like we don’t know how much life could change.
My throat tightens until it hurts.
“Idiot,” I whisper—not to her. To myself.
I lift the photo and stare at it, letting the pain have its moment.
Then I reach up and slide it behind the mirror.
Not fully hidden.
Just tucked behind the glossy idol shots Eon arranged, buried under layers of curated perfection.
A secret pressed flat against glass.
Something real in a room built for performance.
I stare at my own reflection—my eyes, my mouth, the practiced calm I wear like armor.
Then, very carefully, I touch the edge of the mirror where the photo hides, as if I can feel Evie through it.
“I’m not looking you up,” I say softly, as if saying it out loud will make it true. “I’m not dragging you back into this. Especially not now. I can’t.”
My reflection doesn’t answer.
The arena lights outside hum. Somewhere down the hall, Jules shouts something dramatic and Remy tells her to shut up. Mina laughs—small, bright, grateful for the sound.
Blaire’s voice echoes faintly in the corridor, scheduling our lives into neat lines.
And somewhere in the back rows of an empty stadium, something enormous clapped for us like it enjoyed the show.
I straighten, smoothing my hair back, forcing my breath into steadiness.
Leader. Pop star. Weapon.
Tonight, we sing.
Tonight, we lure the Chorus into the cage.
Tonight, we kill it before it can slip its hooks into Harbor’s Edge’s hungry nostalgia.
And I keep my eyes forward.
Even if my past is less than ten blocks away.