Chapter 13 Kaia
Kaia
Eon’s “temporary offices” in Harbor’s Edge are exactly what you’d expect from a corporation that wants to look local while swallowing the town whole.
They’ve rented out the old maritime museum annex—the one that used to host school field trips and dusty model ships—and transformed it into something sleek and sterile overnight. Everything smells faintly of citrus cleaner and printer ink.
Blaire flashes a badge and gets us waved through. “Heads down,” she murmurs. “No selfies, no fans, no headlines.”
Jules makes a face. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty fun,” she says without missing a beat. “In private.”
I keep walking.
The cut at my hairline tugs slightly when I tighten my ponytail, and my brain does something traitorous. It replays Evie’s hands at my temple, the antiseptic smell, the way her voice went sharp to hide the softness underneath.
I shut it down. Not now.
Conference room three is at the end of a hallway lined with framed photos of Harbor’s Edge “heritage” landmarks.
Inside, the room is surprisingly packed.
Mr. Bane and another handler sit along one side of the table with devices and folders.
Mr. Cohen sits nearby. Across from them are Eon executives in tailored jackets and polite smiles, including Devin and Director Hans.
There’s some other people I don’t recognize, and a wall screen shows a color-coded festival map with blinking nodes.
Wards.
Routes.
Crowd density projections.
Since failing to kill the Chorus at our show, we need to be prepared for anything at Harbor Lights.
Devin gives us a bright, fake-friendly wave. “Morning, Halo.”
Jules mutters something under her breath.
Blaire steers us to seats. “Sit. Listen. Don’t talk unless I say.”
Jules whispers, “Do I ever listen?”
Blaire looks at her.
Jules sits immediately.
I take the chair nearest the screen so I can see everything. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Not a message. Just a calendar notification: HARBOR LIGHTS— LAUNCH SCHEDULE POSTED.
I open it. A neat list. Times. Segments. Closures. Sponsor blocks. “Hometown Heroes” featurettes.
Then my thumb drifts and I open my texts. Evie’s contact sits near the top like it belongs there. Like my phone thinks I have a normal life and a normal past and a normal reason to keep someone’s number saved for years.
Her name is just… there.
No thread. No history. No hey or sorry or are you alive. Just empty space beneath it, like an open wound.
I stare at the number and my brain does that stupid thing where it checks the digits even though I’ve memorized them years ago. Wonders if it’s still the same as it was in high school. Wonders if she ever changed it and I just never noticed because I never tried.
I could send her the schedule.
I could warn her about the crowd surges and the road closures.
I could even—God help me—say hi.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but I don’t type. Instead, I lock the screen and shove the phone back into my pocket like it burned me.
Across the table, Mina watches me for half a second, then looks away like she’s being polite. Remy doesn’t look, but I know she noticed. Remy notices everything.
Jules, however, leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “Text her, coward.”
I keep my eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jules grins. “Uh huh. That’s convenient.”
I glance at her just long enough to deliver a warning with my eyes.
She mouths, exaggerated: text her.
“Enough,” Blaire murmurs without turning her head.
The meeting starts.
Mr. Cohen stands and taps the table once. “Let’s begin.”
The wall screen changes. A clean, animated graphic fills it: Harbor’s Edge from above, dotted with glowing points.
“The Chorus’s pattern remains consistent,” Cohen says, voice calm. “It feeds on nostalgia. It gathers around repeat rituals and we predict that it will be lured by Harbor Lights. This is why we’re proposing a controlled convergence.”
One of the Eon executives—tall, silver hair, name tag that reads MARROWSON—nods along like we’re in a boardroom, not planning a monster trap. “Harbor Lights is a gift,” she says. “The town is already primed. The emotional output is unprecedented. It is the perfect trap for the Chorus.”
Output.
My stomach tightens.
She clicks a remote. Another graphic appears: Projected Attendance, Engagement Spikes, Emotional Yield.
Yield.
There it is again.
“Midnight Halo’s presence increases emotional stability and concentrates the pattern,” Mr. Cohen continues. “Our plan is to encourage reformation at the main stage.”
Marrowson gestures to a highlighted zone on the map: the festival’s central performance platform near the pier.
“Eon has handled the performance logistics. The performance,” she says, “will be positioned at peak lantern hour. Maximum crowd density. Maximum emotional output. We want the Chorus to think it’s found a feast.”
Jules whispers, “Gross.”
I elbow her under the table without looking.
Marrowson smiles wider. “And then—because our wards will be strongest there—we trap it. Collapse it. Neutralize it. Mortimer Bane has updated the warding. Mr. Bane?”
Mr. Bane slowly stands. He’s quiet a long moment before saying, “Containment will be reinforced by the Council's new lattice design.”
He slowly gestures to the screen.
My gaze catches on the ward schematics. The curves. The mirrored angles. That subtle halo-arc embedded in the geometry. The same design language I saw in the diner’s sigils.
New warding design, huh?
A little shiver slides down my spine.
Remy’s voice is quiet, precise. “Your lattice is… branded by Eon?”
The room goes very still for half a second.
Marrowson smiles like she’s made a joke. “It's a standardized design.”
Remy doesn’t back down though. She’s staring at the warding design. “By who?”
Marrowson’s smile doesn’t slip, but her eyes sharpen. “By the Council. Joint safety initiative. Same templates across venues. It keeps things consistent.”
Mr. Bane doesn’t react. Cohen doesn’t correct her. Which is its own kind of answer.
Remy’s gaze holds steady for another beat, then she gives the tiniest nod like she’s filing it away instead of arguing in a room designed to make arguing useless.
Marrowson takes that as an answer and says, “Great. Moving on.”
A different exec—young, sharp suit, eyes too bright—leans forward. “To be clear, this also significantly elevates Harbor Lights’ profile,” he says. “Midnight Halo appearing as a ‘surprise performance’ drives press, boosts streams, creates a narrative. It’s… mutually beneficial.”
Devin beams, chiming in, “Yes, exactly. Local authenticity with global reach.”
I keep my hands folded on the table, nails digging into my palms to keep myself still.
“And the civilians?” I ask. “The streets? If splinters do break through the wards again—”
“We’ll have increased roaming suppression,” Marrowson says quickly. “Low-level patrols. Increased ward checks.”
“Low-level patrols,” Jules repeats under her breath. “Like the one where Kaia got hurt?”
I cut her a look.
She doesn’t care. “What? It’s relevant.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Devin glances at my hairline like he’s noticing the small cut for the first time, and is the first to break the silence. “A minor injury does not indicate plan failure.”
Mina inhales like she’s about to jump off a cliff. “Actually. I’d like to add something.”
Blaire’s face does something between a wince and a prayer, like she wants to crawl under the table but also like she’s proud Mina is brave enough to speak.
Everyone turns to her.
Mina straightens a little, voice still gentle but firm. “There was something bigger behind the Chorus last time.”
The room shifts, subtle tension.
Devin sighs like she’s bringing up an inconvenient rumor again. “Mina, as discussed, perception distortions are common during high resonance.”
Remy’s voice cuts in, calm and sharpened. She doesn’t raise her volume. She doesn’t need to. “Mina isn’t prone to theatrics. If she says she saw an observer, we treat it as data. Stop dismissing her.”
Silence.
For a moment, even Devin doesn’t have a neat line.
Then the silver-haired exec speaks again, voice softer now, the way people speak when they’re about to invoke something bigger than all of us.
“Regardless,” Marrowson says, “this performance is non-negotiable. Harbor Lights is a keystone event. The town’s emotional output peaks here.” Her eyes flick, briefly, to Cohen and then back to us. “We need a strong showing.”
I keep my face blank because I can’t afford to show fear in a room like this. But inside, something tightens. A bad feeling settling into my gut like a stone.
Devin clears his throat, forcing brightness back into the air. “So. Operationally: Midnight Halo will remain ‘off-duty’ publicly until the surprise set. Social media will be throttled. Location leaks will be controlled. We’ll push the festival narrative through official channels.”
He clicks to the next slide: SURPRISE SETLIST — PROPOSED.
The meeting drags on—routes, protocols, “acceptable collateral,” words that make my skin crawl. The Eon execs smile through it like they’re planning a product launch.
When it finally ends, Blaire is the first to stand. “We’re done.”
Devin beams. “Great synergy, everyone!”
My phone vibrates again in my pocket.
I don’t take it out.
But my brain fills in the schedule anyway—lantern launch, pier stage, surge in the diner district after closing…
My thumb aches with the urge to warn her, to talk to her.
I don’t.
I can feel Jules watching me, reading my mind, seeing the way I glance at my phone.
She leans in again, whispering like she can’t help herself. “Text her, coward.”
I snap before I can stop it.
“Shut up,” I hiss, sharper than I mean to.
Jules blinks, grin fading. Mina goes still. Remy’s gaze flicks to me, assessing. The room is loud enough that I’m not sure if anyone else heard, but Blaire’s head turns slightly.
I force my voice back down. “I’m focused.”
Jules’ expression shifts into something more serious under the humor. “Right,” she murmurs. “Because this is… you focused on work and not waitresses, right?”
My face burns. I don’t answer. Because if I do, I’ll say her name. And if I say her name in this room, I’m afraid the walls will learn it.
Blaire claps her hands once. “Okay. That’s enough. Girls, up. We’re done here.”
We file out into the hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The maritime photos stare down at us like the town is watching its own takeover.
My phone is heavy in my pocket.
Jules walks beside me in silence for a whole ten steps, which is how I know she’s about to do something dangerous.
Then she says quietly, “You can face demons but not one irritated waitress?”
I stop.
Blaire keeps walking, assuming we’re following. Mina and Remy slow, sensing the shift.
I turn to Jules, jaw tight. “For once, don’t start, Jules.”
Jules’ eyes are sharp now, playful mask gone. “Kaia. You snapped at me in there.”
“I said I’m focused.”
“You’re not,” Jules says, blunt. “You’re terrified.”
I scoff. “Of what?”
Jules gestures vaguely back toward the conference room. “Of them. Of messing up again.” Her voice drops. “And of her.”
I stare at her.
Jules softens, just a fraction. “I thought it was a crush,” she says. “I thought it was—cute. Hometown angst.”
Mina’s voice is barely audible. “It’s not.”
Remy’s gaze stays on me, unreadable.
Jules nods, like she’s arriving at the same conclusion in real time. “It’s deeper,” she says quietly. “That’s why you won’t text her. Because if you do, it becomes real.”
My chest aches.
I want to deny it.
I can’t.
So I do what I always do when I can’t deny something: I go cold.
“Drop it,” I say.
Jules’ eyes narrow. “No.”
I flinch. Jules may whine and argue, but she never says no to me unless she thinks I’m about to implode.
She steps closer, voice low enough only we can hear. “Kaia, you don’t get to punish yourself into silence and call it strategy.”
My pulse jumps. “You don’t understand.”
Jules laughs once, sharp. “I understand plenty. You’re brave with monsters because monsters don’t remember what you said to them when you were sixteen.”
My throat closes, and I glare at her.
Jules’ voice softens immediately. “Sorry. That was…” She trails off, then shrugs.
Mina’s eyes go sad. Remy’s gaze drops for a beat, giving me privacy even while standing there.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to move again because if I stand still, I’ll crack.
“We have a job here, a plan,” I say, voice flat. “We follow it.”
Jules watches me for a long second, then nods once, reluctant.
“Fine. We follow the plan.” Then she adds, softer, like a warning and a promise, “But after this? You’re going to talk to her. Or I’m going to drag you to that diner by your collar.”
I huff and turn away from her. Because in my pocket, my phone feels like a loaded weapon.
And I can’t shake the feeling that the worst part isn’t the demon.
It’s how much I still want to run to her.