5. Jules #3
Across from me, Camille slides half an inch down the wall before catching herself. The wards beneath her skin fade, leaving only her: breathing hard, eyes clear, jaw set like she’s furious the corridor had the nerve.
Alive, but clearly very angry.
I straighten, ignoring the pull in my side. “Wow,” I say. “You really know how to do ‘damsel in distress’ in the least encouraging way possible.”
She looks at me. Really looks this time. Not flat or distant. Sharp. Assessing.
Then she says, “You destroyed three cameras.”
I blink. “…You’re welcome?”
She adjusts her sleeve like she wasn’t just in the middle of a very aggressive attempted possession. “That equipment was calibrated for the live feed. Replacing it will delay—“
“You were about thirty seconds away from becoming haunted corporate property,” I cut in.
She pauses to process that. “Noted.”
I stare at her. “Do I at least get a thank-you for saving your ass, or is gratitude also off-brand?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “You have my formal appreciation.”
A laugh slips out of me before my side reminds me I’m bleeding. I wince.
Her gaze drops immediately, cataloging and measuring. “Are you injured?”
“Define injured.”
“Bleeding.”
“Then yes.”
She nods once, like that settles the terminology. “Medical will need to—“
“I’m fine. Medical always fusses. I just need a first aid kit.” I jerk my head toward the main room. “Come on. Let’s go before your remaining tech decides it has feelings.”
She doesn’t move immediately. Just studies me for one second longer, like she’s updating a file in real time.
Then she follows.
***
Later, once everything is contained, spun, and explained away as a “technical malfunction,” I lean back against another wall, the fresh bandage at my side pulling whenever I breathe too deeply, and watch the cleanup.
Mr. Bane arrived within minutes of the attack. He never runs. He never looks surprised. He just appears in a dark suit with that same calm, expensive funeral-director energy and starts tidying reality until it behaves.
Handlers are what the Council sends when a mess needs to stop existing.
They aren’t fighters, exactly. They specialize in aftermath: narrative containment, witness management, and memory correction if things get bad enough.
Basically, they arrive after the screaming and make reality easier to live with.
Mr. Bane is very good at his job.
The host had sat in a folding chair with a blanket around her shoulders, pale and confused while Mr. Bane crouched in front of her, suitcase open, and reshaped her memories. Most of the crew were Eon, which helped. Fewer civilians. Fewer problems.
Then Mr. Bane condemned every piece of equipment connected to the corridor. The original set was sealed, the dead monitors were tagged for Council inspection, and production moved us into a smaller backup studio two floors down.
So far, the Council’s working theory is bad luck.
Residual energy from Harbor’s Edge. A hotspot. Some interference in an overloaded system. Wrong place, wrong time.
Happens.
And somehow, after all that, we still did the interview.
Delayed, re-lit, re-powdered, and surrounded by enough temporary wards to make the walls glow if I looked at them too long, but still done.
A few pieces come back to me in flashes.
The host smiling too hard. Camille off-camera, still as a blade.
Kaia taking the first question like she was born for crisis management.
Something about Midnight Halo being “more excited than ever” for the tour, followed by “creative intensity,” “technical complications,” and “the energy of live performance.”
Me? I only went a little off script.
When the host asked about the latest fan conspiracy theory, I said with bright, fake sincerity, “I promise we are not cursed,” and Remy looked one breath away from killing me on live air.
The host laughed. The audience in the live comments apparently did too.
Camille did not.
Obviously.
I glance over at her now. Blaire is off to one side with her, both of them speaking in low voices.
Now that the show’s over, Camille’s holding an ice pack against the side of her neck with a frown.
Kevin insisted she take it, but her tablet is already back in her other hand.
Of course it is. Of course she nearly got eaten by a corridor demon, finished the interview anyway, and immediately started logging the damage.
Insane behavior.
Also kind of hot, unfortunately.
Mina appears at my shoulder, following my line of sight. “You’re staring,” she says quietly.
“I’m observing,” I correct. “She almost got possessed and still made us finish the interview.”
Mina is silent for a moment. “I think she just doesn’t know how to stop.”
I open my mouth to argue, mostly on principle, but across the room, Camille looks up from whatever disaster report she’s already building.
And for half a second, her eyes meet mine.
There’s something new in her gaze. Not warmth. Definitely not gratitude. Just recognition, as if I’ve moved up from background problem to active problem.
Great.
I smile at her anyway.
She’s the one who looks away first.
And that?
That almost makes the whole thing worth it.