20. Camille
Camille
Hospitals are efficient.
That is the first thing I notice.
Clean lines. Clear hierarchies. Defined roles. Everyone moves with purpose, and every action belongs to an established system.
Systems can be managed.
I am already on my phone before I reach the private floor.
“The statement goes out within the hour,” I say, turning the corner without slowing. “Acute medical emergency during the performance. No speculation about cause until the doctors complete their assessment. Emphasize that she is receiving care.”
The story is already taking hold. Jules collapsed onstage after appearing unwell during the Vegas livestream, when I stepped into frame and gave her water.
Fans have begun assembling the two moments into a simple explanation: exhaustion, dehydration, an overworked performer pushing herself too hard.
It is credible because part of it is true.
The official accounts are filling with concern, well wishes, and demands that Eon allow the group to rest. Those posts are manageable.
The conspiracy accounts are not.
One in particular has already reached the top of the flagged queue.
I recognise the editing before I register the username.
Red circles. Dramatic zooms. Footage slowed until every involuntary movement looks deliberate.
It is the same compilation account that circulated the Harbor’s Edge video before the tour, though it is operating under its third username since Eon removed the original.
The new title fills the screen: MIDNIGHT HALO INCIDENT TIMELINE: THEY KNEW.
The video opens with Jules staring into the sky at Harbor’s Edge.
Then Vegas. Her expression going empty during the livestream.
Text appears over the final frame: HOW MANY EXCUSES BEFORE THEY TELL US THE TRUTH?
The account is connecting the incidents more accurately than Eon’s internal reports.
Unacceptable.
I flag the post for immediate removal. Before the request finishes processing, three copies appear beneath it.
This is bad.
Worse than Vegas. Worse than the livestream.
My phone vibrates with another message from Voss.
Contain speculation before it consolidates.
As though I am not already attempting to do exactly that.
“Push the medical explanation through entertainment outlets first,” I continue. “Use the existing interview footage if necessary. She appeared overheated. I intervened. The pattern will reinforce itself.”
Someone on the call begins asking about tour postponement.
I end it before they finish.
External variables are secondary.
Jules is—
The bond flickers.
Weak. Unstable.
Wrong.
I walk faster.
Controlled voices carry from the room ahead. No raised arguments. No frantic movement.
That is worse.
I round the corner and find the door open. No one stops me from entering.
Jules lies in the hospital bed, too still for someone who never stops moving. Monitors track her pulse and oxygen in clean, impersonal lines. Dried blood marks her hairline, and dark bruising is already forming across one shoulder.
For one second, I cannot move.
Kaia stands closest to the bed, straight-backed and composed.
Remy waits near the foot with her arms folded, watching the monitors as closely as the medical staff.
Mina sits on Jules’s other side with one hand curled around the edge of the sheet, as though she is afraid to touch her without permission.
They all look at me.
The shift is subtle but absolute.
“Status,” I say.
My voice is steady.
Good.
Kaia answers. “She’s stable. Concussion, bruised ribs, and a minor shoulder injury. They’re running scans to rule out internal damage.”
Clinical. Efficient. Nothing unnecessary.
I nod and begin processing the recovery implications before stopping myself.
I step towards the bed.
Remy moves into my path.
Not aggressively. Only enough.
“Bane said the temporary wards will hold until she wakes,” she says. “She doesn’t need you beside her right now.”
I stop. “Move.”
Her gaze does not shift. “You don’t get to stand here like this is yours.”
Silence settles over the room.
“I’m her wife.”
The word lands incorrectly even now.
Remy does not blink. “On paper.”
Something tightens beneath my sternum.
I look towards Mina. She is usually the bridge between opposing positions, the one most likely to soften conflict before it becomes permanent.
For a second, she hesitates.
Then her eyes move to Jules.
“Remy’s right,” she says quietly.
That lands harder.
“We all see how you treat her.”
There is no anger in the statement. Anger could be challenged, redirected, or de-escalated.
This is certainty.
“I ensure operational stability,” I say.
Because that is true.
Because that is what I do.
Mina’s grip tightens around the sheet. “She’s not an operation.”
No one adds anything.
They do not need to.
I look at Jules. The bond flickers again, faint enough that I instinctively reach for it before stopping myself.
“She should not have been exposed to that level of output,” I say.
The phrasing is automatic. Analytical.
Remy gives a short, humorless laugh. “And whose call was that?”
The room goes quiet again.
I approved the engagement increase. I tightened the camera coverage, increased emotional visibility, and argued that the smaller venue would provide a more controlled environment.
The output spiked.
The system destabilized.
Jules collapsed.
“This was a miscalculation,” I say.
The moment the words leave me, I know they are insufficient.
“Don’t,” Kaia says.
Her voice is not loud, but it stops me.
“Don’t turn this into numbers.”
I inhale slowly.
“I am responsible for her.”
Remy’s expression remains hard. “Then act like it.”
I am acting.
I am arranging the statement, restricting footage, obtaining the best available care, and preparing contingency plans for the remaining tour schedule.
Except none of those things are what she means.
I look at the bruising across Jules’s shoulder and follow the sequence to its unavoidable conclusion.
I approved the conditions.
The conditions created the spike.
The spike gave the Mouthpiece access.
I caused this.
The realisation is clean and precise.
True.
I do not argue again. I do not invoke the bond, the marriage, or my operational authority.
“Understood,” I say.
No one responds.
I turn and leave.
The corridor is empty. I make it three steps before stopping and pressing my back against the wall.
The surface is cold through my blouse.
My hands flatten against it, seeking something solid enough to counter the pressure building inside me.
The bond flickers.
Weak.
Still there.
“She’s alive,” I say under my breath.
That is the only metric that matters.
My chest tightens, not sharply this time, but with a sustained weight I cannot categorize into anything useful.
Control did not prevent the breach.
Optimisation did not ensure safety.
The archived files return to me without invitation. Crisis statements drafted weeks before performers collapsed. Medical leave announcements prepared before symptoms became public. Eon’s language anticipating burnout rather than responding to it.
I had assumed the pattern belonged to prior groups.
What if it does not?
What if Eon already has a statement prepared for Jules?
A hiatus. Exhaustion. Private medical concerns. A commitment to recovery.
What if tonight was not an unforeseen failure?
I close my eyes.
Only for a second.
I failed.
No.
Failure is not a stopping point. It is evidence that the existing approach is wrong.
I push away from the wall and call Kevin.
He answers immediately. “How is she?”
“Stable. They are still running tests.”
He exhales. “That’s good.”
“Yes.”
The word feels inadequate.
“I need you to search every active and archived file connected to Jules Navarro and Midnight Halo.”
A pause. “What kind of file?”
“Everything. Tour contingency plans, crisis statements, medical projections, contract amendments, internal communications. Search for documents created before the incident they reference.”
His voice lowers. “Like the old groups?”
“Yes.”
“You think Eon knew this might happen?”
“I don’t know what Eon knows.”
That is the problem.
I begin walking again, moving farther from Jules’s room before continuing.
“Do not use the standard search interface. Access the migration archive directly, and keep the request off the formal logs wherever possible.”
“On the down-low,” he says.
“Yes.”
Another pause. “You know saying it like that doesn’t make it less alarming.”
“I am not attempting to make it less alarming.”
“Right.” I hear his keyboard begin clicking. “Does Voss know you’re looking?”
“No.”
“Should he?”
“No.”
The answer comes too quickly.
After a moment of silence, he says, “You know this could end both our careers.”
“Yes.”
“And you still want me to do it?”
I look toward Jules’s room. “Yes.”
“Understood,” he says. “I’ll send anything unusual directly to you.”
“Do not send it through Eon systems.”
“Camille.”
“What?”
“You’re asking me to secretly search restricted company archives for evidence that Eon anticipated a performer’s medical emergency.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to make sure we both heard it.”
“We did.”
He sighs. “I’ll handle it.”
I end the call and immediately make another.
“Get me Navarro’s full medical report,” I say when the hospital liaison answers. “Imaging, vitals, neurological assessment, and every test result as soon as it is available. Cross-reference her symptoms against the previous possession attempts.”
The liaison begins explaining privacy restrictions.
“No. We are not waiting for internal clearance. Her emergency consent documentation authorizes access to her spouse.”
The phrase spouse tastes strange now.
Useful.
Real enough for access, apparently.
“She also requires a specialist consultation,” I continue. “Neurological and magical. Mr. Bane is not sufficient on his own.”
“That may take time.”
“I do not care what it costs.”
I reach the end of the corridor and stop outside the window overlooking Barcelona.
Morning light has begun spreading over the city, indifferent to the fact that Jules is unconscious behind me while the internet debates whether her collapse was exhaustion, a stunt, or evidence of something impossible.
“She gets the best care available,” I say. “Immediately.”
The bond flickers again.
Weak.
Still there.
I press two fingers against the watch at my wrist.
I do not adjust it.
“Stabilize her,” I say.
Not entirely to the person on the call.
If I cannot stand beside her bed, I will make certain she survives without me.