8. Camille
Camille
The rehearsal floor empties in stages.
Crew first, then production staff, after surrendering every recording device and confirming the footage has been locked. By the time the doors close, I’ve already alerted the Council and Eon of the emergency meeting, and only Blaire and I remain.
“This is unacceptable,” I say.
“The demon attack or the fact that your first response was to lock Jules out of the room?”
I look at her.
Her expression hardens. “Jules didn’t cause this.”
“Fault is irrelevant. One of the most visible performers in the entire world was nearly possessed during a tour rehearsal in front of thirty people and six active cameras within a heavily warded building.” I glance toward the darkened monitors.
“This is far different from the attack that happened at the recording studio outside of the Tower. This is a security failure, a possession risk, and a public-relations nightmare.”
“I understand, however, she’s a person, not a risk profile.”
“She can be both.”
Blaire steps closer. She doesn’t raise her voice. “Be careful.”
The warning is protective, not professional. I expected it.
“I am not assigning blame,” I say. “I am identifying exposure. If Mina had not intervened, Jules could have said or done anything while the cameras were recording. She could have hurt herself. She could have hurt one of the others. Whatever attached itself to her chose a stage, a live system, and the member of Midnight Halo most likely to command attention.”
Blaire looks toward the doors Jules disappeared through. The anger remains, but it shifts direction.
“What do you need?”
“Bane needs to assess every ward in this studio. Nothing resumes until we know whether the wards failed, were bypassed, or were never designed for this kind of intrusion.”
“Their wards are Council standard.”
“Then Council standard is inadequate.”
That earns me a sharp look, but she doesn’t disagree.
“I want the audio system stripped,” I continue. “Every embedded count, backing track, communications channel, and control board reviewed. And Jules needs a full magical assessment.”
Blaire’s jaw tightens. “With her consent.”
“If she remains a possession risk—“
“With her consent,” she repeats. “You can assess the wards. You can scan for residue. But I will not let you or the Council treat her like contaminated equipment. Nothing gets decided about her without me.”
“That may not be within my control. It will be the Council’s decision.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“I’ll contact Bane,” I say. “The rehearsal remains suspended.”
My phone rings before Blaire can respond.
The name on the screen confirms what I already anticipated. Alaric Voss does not call personally unless a failure has exceeded the expected threshold. I was assigned to monitor Midnight Halo, rewrite the pre-tour narrative, and control Jules Navarro.
Instead, she was nearly possessed in front of an active production crew. The assessment is not subjective.
I am underperforming.
Blaire reads the shift in my expression. “Council?”
“No. Eon. My supervisor.”
She folds her arms. “Tell them the girls are not disposable.”
“That is unlikely to be the focus of the conversation.”
“Make it one.”
I answer.
“This is not containable at your current level,” Voss states.
I don’t respond immediately. Not because I lack an answer, but because I’m already adjusting the framework. Containment failure implies escalation. Escalation implies oversight. Oversight implies consequences, most of which will be directed at me.
“I understand.”
Voss doesn’t soften. “There were too many witnesses, too many angles, and too much uncontrolled exposure.”
“I’ve already initiated cleanup. Mr. Bane is assessing the site, and rehearsals have been suspended pending a full warding review.”
“That’s not sufficient.”
Of course it isn’t. Nothing about this has been sufficient.
“We will discuss further options within the meeting,” he says.
The line goes dead without a closing or confirmation.
Directive issued.
I lower the phone.
Blaire watches me. “How bad?”
“They are escalating oversight.”
“So bad.”
“Yes.”
***
Hours later, the boardroom is colder than the rest of the Tower.
Glass walls, dark surfaces, no ambient noise. Every seat except ours is occupied before we arrive, hierarchy made visible through placement alone. Eon executives line one side of the table. Council representatives sit opposite them.
Eric Cohen, a senior Councilman, is already speaking to someone at the far end in a low, measured voice. Devin Park is here too, which is unfortunate.
Blaire takes a seat near the center of the table and does not acknowledge me when I sit beside her.
The room is already buzzing with low, urgent conversations.
A ward failure inside Eon Tower is almost unheard of.
Multiple failures within Council-controlled systems are worse.
Mr. Bane stands near the glass wall with two other handlers, all three dressed in variations of the same dark, discreet uniform.
They speak quietly over preliminary residue scans and security reports, their expressions giving away nothing.
A laptop has been positioned at the head of the table. The screen remains black until the final Council representative takes their seat.
Then Alaric Voss appears on the laptop, joining remotely.
He is in his late fifties, perhaps older, though nothing about him suggests age has been allowed to inconvenience him.
Silver threads his dark hair at the temples, and his charcoal suit fits with the severe precision of everything else about him.
His face is lean, composed, and almost handsome until his eyes settle on the room.
Pale grey. Unblinking. The kind of eyes that make conversation feel like an assessment you have already failed.
“Let’s proceed,” he says.
The conversations stop.
Cohen takes the lead. His tone is clinical enough to pass as neutral, which is useful when the content is not.
“We are seeing an increase in security incidents across multiple Eon and Council divisions worldwide.” He activates the projection, and data clusters resolve above the table: timestamps, flagged anomalies, ward disruptions, possession attempts, and compromised personnel.
Not just Midnight Halo.
Not just today.
A pattern.
“These incidents have occurred exclusively within Eon and Council-affiliated systems,” Cohen continues. “Several involved attempted access to senior personnel, protected facilities, or individuals with high operational value.”
The display shifts. A map fills with red points across North America, Europe, and East Asia. Studios. Executive offices. Broadcast facilities. Council compounds.
“Points of convergence include media-heavy environments, high emotional output, and specific individuals with substantial public reach.”
The data reorganizes.
Jules’s name appears more than once.
More than it should.
“These specific demonic entities have since been classified internally as Mouthpieces,” Cohen says. “They do not operate independently. They require conduits: systems, signals, or people capable of carrying and amplifying their influence.”
The next slide shows breached audio networks, hijacked camera feeds, and fragments of corrupted internal broadcasts.
“They appear to be targeting Eon specifically,” he adds. “We do not yet know why. The leading theory is accessibility. Eon’s infrastructure is designed to distribute sound, image, and emotion on a global scale. That makes it an unusually effective delivery system.”
I process the structure rapidly. Infiltration through exposure channels. Amplification through emotional response. Host interaction not incidental, but required.
Pattern, not anomaly.
“Containment has been successful at lower levels,” Cohen says, “but recent escalation suggests adaptation.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
He meets my gaze. “Meaning this is not random, and the entities are learning.”
The next slide isolates Jules. Engagement spikes, prior event overlaps, and instability markers align around her profile too cleanly to dismiss. Harbor’s Edge sits at the center of the timeline, followed by smaller disturbances, the corridor attack, and today’s rehearsal incident.
“We believe the exposure at Harbor’s Edge marked her,” Cohen says. “Since then, the frequency and precision of attempts involving her have increased. Her current exposure profile is the highest in the group.”
Devin leans forward. “And with the world tour approaching, removing her from public activity is not a viable option. Jules is central to the performance structure, fan engagement, and overall success of ECLIPSE RUN. You cannot simply take Midnight Halo’s main dancer out of the show and expect the tour to absorb the loss. ”
Silence settles over the room. A high-risk yet essential asset is a dangerous combination.
Then the silence fractures into low, overlapping whispers around the room.
“Can she be isolated between performances?”
“Not without the press noticing.”
“What about a temporary replacement?”
“At this stage?”
“Then postpone the opening dates.”
“Do you know what that would cost?”
“Quiet. The Council has identified a mitigation strategy,” Cohen says. “Historically, bonded magical unions have demonstrated measurable resistance to direct possession attempts. Resonant bonds create a stabilizing field around both participants, limiting external interference.”
Interest moves along the Eon side of the table.
Of course.
Blaire leans forward. “You’re saying Jules needs to enter a magical union so the Mouthpieces stop targeting her and the tour can proceed safely?”
Cohen’s expression remains neutral. “The union would not prevent targeting. It would make successful alignment and possession considerably more difficult.”
Her jaw tightens. “And whoever she’s bonded to has to remain close?”
“Proximity strengthens the protective effect,” Cohen says. “The bond also requires sufficient resonance compatibility. It is a precise system. An incompatible pairing may produce no protection at all, or destabilize both participants.”