Chapter 7
The man, the myth, the fangirl-bait legend.
Sunlight hit Emma as she stepped outside the building, where white tents marked the front of the Hall H line. Her vision blurred as she blinked into the glare.
Sensory overload and sleep deprivation were catching up with her, and a faint throb pulsed behind her eyes. She breathed through it without slowing down.
Despite the sheer number of people inching forward in the zigzagging queue, the mood was calm and surprisingly polite. Comic-Con visitors, she was learning, were a friendly bunch. There was no VIP entrance in sight, so she headed for a staffer overseeing the process.
Only minutes to the panel now. Her heart fluttered with excitement, clearly having no damn chill.
It was ridiculous. This was just about professional curiosity.
Seeing someone up close whose work she’d admired.
Plus, a Hall H panel was peak Comic-Con.
She could hardly pass up a golden ticket to that.
Perfectly good reasons. Nothing whatsoever to do with any silly, irrelevant crushes.
As she approached the line, she rummaged in her tote for the SDCC cap she’d spotted earlier and tugged it low over her brow. One benefit of being a writer was that she was rarely recognized—but this wasn’t your average type of crowd.
There was a significant overlap between the Coleheads and her own readers, and she had no desire to fuel the rumors about her inspiration for Lucen. If people saw her here, it would be like throwing gasoline on the fire.
“Hi,” she mumbled, keeping her back to the line as she showed the staffer her wristband. He was sporting wraparound sunglasses and a formidable beard. “I’ve got one of these. Where do I go?”
He lifted his sunglasses to study the band, leaning over her wrist like a jeweler appraising a diamond. “Lady, with this access, you’re not standing in any lines. Come with me.”
The man nodded to a colleague to take over his spot, then led her back to the building, scanning his badge and taking her in through a service corridor. He paused outside a wide black door further in.
“First time experiencing Hall H?”
Emma nodded.
“Then take a breath. It’s quite something.”
He pulled the door open with a dramatic flourish.
Sound slammed into her like a physical force, nearly knocking her back. The man watched her, amused. “That’s the sound of 6,500 people about to see the cast of their favorite show.”
“Right,” Emma murmured, then stepped inside.
Hall H swallowed her whole. The room was dark and cavernous, with rows upon rows of black folding chairs stretching into the distance, the ceiling lost somewhere above.
Sparse spotlights glowed like distant stars.
It looked like the inside of a spaceship—like an actual Darkreach set.
People surged in every direction, faces alight with excitement.
A sudden sense of belonging settled within her, pulling a small smile to her lips.
This felt more like home than the cool, performative backstage area.
These were her people—the fans, the ones obsessed with stories.
For a moment, she just stood there, caught in the pulse of six thousand people breathing the same story.
“I’ll get you to your seat,” the staffer said over the noise.
As he led her down an aisle, the lights dimmed, the music swelled, and a disembodied voice boomed against the walls, announcing the moderator.
Applause rippled through the room as a curly-haired woman walked out onto the stage, multiplied by the many Jumbotrons.
“Are you ready?” she called, her voice echoing through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the creators and cast of Darkreach!”
The seats were nearly full, but the staffer guided her to a small roped-off section near the front, marked VIP access only. He unhooked the rope to let her through.
She kept her head low beneath the cap as she slipped into an empty seat. Onstage, the showrunner and head director were already seated, and a massive cheer rose as the speaker announced the next name: Patrick Corbin, Darkreach’s leading man and hero.
Emma watched unaffected as the handsome star crossed the stage. He flashed his trademark lopsided grin, one of maybe three facial expressions in his entire repertoire.
As the next two stars took the stage—female lead Indira Miller and comic relief Felix Zhang—she kept watching Patrick.
There was something strained in his smile.
As far as she knew, the biggest star would normally be the one to appear last. But in this case, someone had clearly decided that that would be . . .
The moderator called out again.
. . . and Darren Cole, starring as Kael Ferros.
Emma startled as the room exploded in screams. Everything that came before was polite applause by comparison.
And there he was.
Her heart kicked once, sharp as a bass drop, as Darren stepped onto the stage. His face hit the Jumbotron, a fraction delayed from reality, the double-image making it surreal.
He crossed the stage with easy strides, catching a high five from Felix on the way. Taller than she’d imagined, devastatingly good-looking in a simple white button-down. Five o’clock stubble shaded his cheeks. As he pulled out his chair, he scanned the room, looking both relaxed and alert.
“I love you, Lucen!” someone shrieked from her row, just a few seats over. She shrank back, discreetly angling her body away.
The moderator launched into questions, starting with Patrick, who offered something pompous about how Darkreach explored the human condition through the lens of war. The words sounded memorized, like someone else had written them for him.
Felix jumped in next, his hot dog-patterned neon sweatsuit almost blinding Emma when it hit the Jumbotrons.
He cracked a joke about how his character would probably survive the apocalypse by hiding in a vending machine.
It seemed to be a reference to some kind of energy beverage he was promoting, but the room still erupted in laughter.
Indira followed—articulate, clearly intelligent. But there was a chill to her elegance, something faintly disdainful beneath the polish. She wore a cut-out bodysuit that looked less like clothing and more like she’d been attacked by a roll of black masking tape.
All three of them came across as people trying very hard not to look like they were trying very hard.
And then there was Darren.
He sat with one ankle resting casually on his knee, hands folded in his lap. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to just below the elbow, showing tanned arms. No jewelry, no overstyled flair, just a classic leather wristwatch.
He could have been a teacher or a colleague at her job if not for his movie star looks. It was impossible not to stare at him, the way the eye is automatically drawn to something beautiful.
“So, Darren,” the moderator finally said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve played a character that walks a thin line between antihero and pure villain . . .”
Someone in the crowd screamed Sebastian Vale at the top of their lungs, and a ripple of laughter went through the hall.
“Right, thank you,” the moderator said, before turning back to Darren. “Kael has clearly become a fan favorite. Why do you think people respond to him the way they do?”
Emma felt herself leaning forward for the first time, warmth spreading low in her stomach. There were hundreds of people between them, yet when he spoke, she had the strangest sensation that he was talking directly to her.
Then again, it was entirely possible that every single person in the room felt the same. Darren seemed to have that effect on people.
He folded his arms on the table. “Well, people aren’t black and white,” he said smoothly.
“They break. They bleed. They make awful choices for good reasons. Or good choices for awful reasons. And Kael . . . he makes people wonder what they’d do in his place.
That’s uncomfortable. But also kind of intriguing. ”
The audience cheered, but Emma caught herself frowning as he finished.
There was a subtle . . . distance in the way he spoke.
Something that just didn’t sit quite right.
He wore an easy smile, magnified on the giant screens, but that dark gleam in his eyes—the one she’d been all tingly about getting to see in real life—was missing.
She was probably reading too much into it. Projecting, because she herself wasn’t a fan of the show.
The next question went to the showrunner, and Darren’s face was replaced on the screen. Emma sat back again, listening only with half an ear. But every time Darren looked out over the crowd, a quiet current ran through her.
Absurd, really. He couldn’t possibly see her through the spotlights, through the sea of faces. But her body just didn’t listen to reason when it came to him.
So she let it happen—absorbing the dizzying fact that she was in the same physical space as Darren Cole and allowing herself to fangirl just a little.