1. Jules #2
We’re filming the promo cut for ECLIPSE RUN—not the full music video, not yet, just the section they’ll push everywhere before the tour starts. Chorus drop, blade reveal, hero shots, enough spectacle to make people want more.
The set is stripped down but intentional. Neon accents cutting through shadow, reflective surfaces catching movement from every angle. There’s nowhere to hide.
Which is kind of the point.
“Playback ready,” someone calls.
“From the top of the chorus,” the director says. “And hold the final formation for camera three.”
We take our marks. Tape under my boots, barely visible but precise. I find the camera lens without thinking, angle myself just enough to stay in frame. Then the count hits.
The opening pulse rolls through the room, low and electric, and the track surges into the chorus: synths sharp, percussion tight, that rising hook we built the whole tour around.
Run me into the blackout—
And just like that, everything else drops away.
This is the part I don’t have to think about. This is the part my body knows. Step. Turn. Shift. Breathe. I hit the mark and reach outwards, not for anything visible, just into the motion itself. The lights flare on cue. White, then gold.
Nothing there. Until there is.
The energy snaps into my hands mid-beat, clean as a practiced catch. Twin short swords, already humming like they’ve been waiting for me to catch up.
Voltstep.
The charge runs through my grip, through my shoulders, down into my movement. Not separate, never separate.
Mina mirrors the count a half-step behind me, her turn softer, her reach quieter, but the air answers her just the same. Light gathers in her hand, clean and glass-bright, resolving into a blade that catches everything and reflects the truth back.
Heartglass.
Remy doesn’t reach at all. She traces. Fingers cutting through the air like she’s writing something only she can see. The lines linger in the air, glowing and deliberate, before collapsing inward, tightening into a black blade that settles into her grip.
Inkthorn.
Kaia comes in on the next formation change, grounded, precise. No flourish, no extra movement, just a clean lift of her arm as the light condenses into a prismatic, winged blade in her grip.
Aurora.
Four positions. Four blades. One count.
Resonance is the magical frequency beneath all of it; the part of us our weapons answer to, and demons cannot help noticing. Put all four of ours together, and it gets loud.
The chorus hits harder.
We don’t slow down, we eclipse the sun—
We move. It’s rhythm, timing, muscle memory layered over instinct until it becomes something automatic. Something reliable. Something ours.
We hit the first sequence clean, sharp, exactly on beat. And yeah, I’m showing off. I can’t help it.
I built this choreography. Every transition, every shift in formation, every little moment designed to look effortless while absolutely not being that.
So yeah, I’m going to enjoy it.
I flip one blade on the transition, letting it spin once through the air before catching it clean on the next beat. Voltstep snaps back into place instantly, like it never left my hand.
I catch Mina on the turn, just a flicker of eye contact, barely there, and she nails the timing on the drop, softer where I went sharp, exactly like we planned.
I grin, not big, not obvious, just enough.
She sees it, and she glows. Doesn’t break, doesn’t miss a step, but there’s this tiny lift in her energy as she locks in further.
Yeah.
That.
That’s why I do this.
We shift formation. Remy slides into position on my left, precise as always, all clean lines and perfect control. I cut a little too close on the pass, not enough to ruin the shot, just enough to make her adjust for me. She does. Of course she does.
Kaia anchors the next count without even trying. Clean. Controlled. Solid enough to make the rest of us look sharper by comparison. I angle toward her on the transition and catch the smallest look from her. It clearly says, behave.
I grin anyway. God, I love this.
The music builds. We hit the second sequence harder, faster, cleaner. The hook loops again, bigger this time, and the cameras move with us. They track left, push in, and catch the flare off the blades.
For a few perfect seconds, it’s just us. Movement, rhythm, and four weapons cutting clean lines through the air like this is exactly what we were built for. Just this.
“Cut,” the director calls.
The music stops. Everything snaps back as crew noise floods in. Someone calls for a lighting adjustment. A PA resets the track. A monitor nearby loops the last take on a slight delay. A producer says something about camera angles and “less deviation from center.”
I roll my shoulders, breathing a little heavier than I should be.
Worth it.
The director steps forward, already frowning. “Let’s keep it tighter. Less improvisation between counts.”
I blink at him. “What improvisation?”
His mouth tightens. “The interaction.”
I smile. “I thought it added personality.”
“We don’t need personality,” he says. “We need consistency.”
Yeah. Of course you do.
“Right,” I say. “Can’t have us being interesting.”
He doesn’t laugh.
Tragic.
“Reset positions,” someone calls.
Mina glances at me as we move back, a little more grounded now, but still holding that glow. Remy doesn’t look at me.
Kaia does, just for a second, and shoots me that same look that says behave.
I grin back, which pretty much means: No promises.
We take our marks. Blades. Tape. Breath. Count. Music cues. The beat drops. And we go again.
Then something slips. Not big. Not enough to stop anything. Just—off.
My body moves before the count hits, Voltstep carving through the air with me as my foot lands beyond its mark.
I’m off time.
My stomach drops, because I know this choreography. I built it. I could run it blind, backwards, half-asleep—
And for that half second… It’s like something else is setting the rhythm.
I correct instantly, but it’s not clean. My foot catches slightly on the turn, weight shifting wrong, a stumble that shouldn’t exist in something I built.
It’s small. Most people wouldn’t even see it, but here, under these lights, it might as well be a fall.
“Cut.”
Everything stops.
“Again,” the director says.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath.
I step back into position, rolling my shoulders once like that’ll reset something.
When was the last time that happened? Not me messing around. Not pushing the timing on purpose, not throwing in something extra just to see if I could get away with it.
An actual mistake.
I don’t mess up my steps. I don’t miss timing. That’s the one thing I don’t—
Mina glances over at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “Just keeping it interesting.”
Remy doesn’t say anything, but when I glance her way, she’s watching me.
I flash her a grin that she doesn’t return.
We reset. Blades, marks, breath. We run it again and again.
Until it’s perfect.
***
Later, the gym is empty.
Which is how I like it, because I don’t actually like working out.
I know. Shocking. Tragic. A betrayal to the concept of being a performer. But here’s the thing: Working out is for people who don’t like to dance or fight demons.
I already do the thing that makes me strong.
I already sweat for hours, push my body past what’s reasonable, train muscle memory until it replaces actual thought…
until I can move on instinct, blades or no blades, and trust my body to land exactly where it needs to.
I don’t need to lift weights on top of that.
And yet, here I am.
Because I missed a step today. Because I was off. Because something slipped. And I don’t like not knowing why.
Maybe it’s just fatigue. Maybe I need to tighten things up. Maybe if I run drills or isolate movement or do literally anything structured and boring, I can fix it.
I flick on the overhead fluorescents. The room hums to life. I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as I walk past. I pause and back up.
Okay.
Objectively? I look incredible. That’s just a fact. I turn slightly, checking the angle. Shoulder, back, hip. Yeah. No notes.
I shift again, checking out my legs, and—my reflection follows a beat too late.
I freeze for a second. Then I move again, deliberate, slow. This time, the mirror matches perfectly.
I stare at it, waiting. Nothing happens.
“…Huh,” I say.
I’m definitely tired. So tired I’m missing steps and seeing shit.
“Okay. Cool. Love that for me,” I mutter.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders. We’ve been running nonstop since Harbor’s Edge. Everyone’s a little off… a little tired.
That’s all this is.
The door opens behind me. I can hear Mina immediately, soft footsteps, the quiet rustle of fabric, the way she exists in a space without taking it over.
Perfect.
Test subject acquired.
I pivot fast, crossing the space before she can protest, grabbing her by the shoulders and planting her directly in front of the mirror with me.
“Okay,” I say. “Look at us.”
She blinks at me in the mirror. “Hi?”
“Focus,” I say. “Do you see anything?”
She squints at our reflection. “…No?”
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice like this is a conspiracy briefing. “I mean See,“ I say. “Capital S.”
She looks again, longer this time, really looking now, then back at me. “…Jules, what?”
I tilt my head, studying her as if she’s the unreliable one here.
“Nothing?” I press. “Nothing at all?”
She glances back at the mirror, then at me again. “…No.”
I hold for a beat, then…
“Not even perfection?“ I ask, easy, tipping into a grin like this was the plan all along.
Mina giggles. Actually giggles.
“You’re fishing,” she chides, slipping out of my grip.
“I am not—“
“You are,” she says, already walking past me. “And it’s embarrassing.”
Rude.
She heads straight for the free weights, because Mina is a glutton for punishment. Tiny. Soft. Looks like she should be curled up somewhere with tea and a blanket… and then she picks up a dumbbell that absolutely does not match her size like it’s nothing.
I watch her for a second.
“Show-off,” I mutter.