1-Zach
I’m sweaty; panting as the doors of DHR Records slam shut behind me.
I stink. But I made it. Barely.
Marble floors and chrome accents give the lobby a sleek, futuristic vibe. A giant LED screen loops music videos I’m too frazzled to process. My boots squeak embarrassingly loud on the polished floor as I speed-walk toward the front desk. The receptionist glances up, her nose crinkling.
“Can I help you?” she asks with that polite-but-concerned tone people have when they’re not sure if you’re homeless or just having a really bad day.
Her name tag reads LUCILLE.
She absolutely looks like a Lucille, with a neat strawberry-blonde bun, and perfect burgundy liner that highlights the wariness in her spearmint-green stare. Lucille probably alphabetizes their skincare and color-codes playlists. Competent, controlled, and deeply concerned about disasters like me.
“I have a meeting with Somnium,” I say, and even I don’t believe it.
“Are you Zachary Blake?” Her glass-smooth forehead crinkles. Clearly expecting a man, her gaze flicks down to my boobs.
“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I say, forcing an awkward chuckle. “I mean, I can show you my ID.”
Glossy pink lips press into a thin line as she considers. I start digging through my purse, finding everything except what I need.
DING.
“Where the hell have you been?” Neil barks, stomping out of the elevator before the doors fully open.
I throw an arm up. “Where do you think?”
Neil’s already swiveled his loafer, returning to the elevator. I abandon the ID search and speed-walk, slipping in beside him just as the doors close. Before he can unleash the full lecture, I lift my phone.
“Look, I’m here with—” I check the screen. “Two minutes to spare. So, you can either go back on your word and fire the best documentarian you’ve had since you were out in the field, with nearly a million subs, might I add, or you can show me where I need to go.”
Neil snorts, and his thinning white hair flops across his face as he shakes his head. “If you were anyone but the monster I created, I might throttle you.” He sniffs obnoxiously, and his crow’s-feet crinkle. “You smell like shit.”
“Well, excuse me for making this a top priority, Boss.”
He turns to me with that fatherly scowl he’s perfected over the years—the one he’s used since the accident, when I was too weak to hold a camera. “Zach, I know it’s been a rough couple of months—”
I scoff, sliding the ash-filled vial along its thin chain.
“Okay.” Neil crosses his arms, stroking his goatee as he peers down at my necklace. “Rough couple of years.”
Biting my lip, I tuck the vial into my shirt. My eyes burn, and not from my stench, but because I know that my best friend would be so disappointed in me.
“But hey,” he says, tapping my chin so I look at him, “there’s a bright side and all that shit. I was honestly considering someone else for this, but I think it’ll be good for you. Might still consider someone else if you don’t get it together, though, capiche?”
He’s not joking. I bite my lip. Cooper, my main camera operator, has covered my ass for months, making most of the technical decisions for Livewire’s projects, as well as managing the light crews and secondary camera ops, despite me being senior DOP.
I showed up hungover to film a music video last week and nearly broke a hundred-thousand-dollar camera. Neil had no choice but to ring my ass a new one. One more failure and I’m not sure I’ll manage to get back up. Professionally or personally.
Not this time.
The doors open to a maze of cubicles and meeting rooms. Neil strides out like he owns the place.
I follow him like a decoy about to be thrown to the wolves.
We slow in front of the conference space at the far end of the hall.
I peek through the glass wall, and a frigid tremor rolls from the base of my neck to my fingers.
We were so, so fucked.
Richard Wallace, VP of DHR Records, sits at the head of the long table with a lawyer flanking him on each side. If Richie Dick’s here, then someone’s in deep shit.
“What?” Neil asks innocently as he faces me, clearly feeling my glare.
“I deserve a raise,” I mutter.
“You’re lucky to have a job, kid.” He chuckles, smothering it as he opens the door.
“This is Zachary Blake,” Neil announces to the room with way too much formality, causing curious gazes to snap to me.
Richard gives me a crooked sneer and a dip of his shiny bald head in greeting, as he does every time Livewire, Neil’s production company, works with one of his artists. It’s supposed to show me that I’m not worthy of a formal introduction, even though my boobs would bust his balls in a second.
“You’re Zach Blake?” Greg Williams, legendary manager of Somnium, asks as his bushy white brows shoot up.
He combs a hand through his full head of silver as his gaze drops to my chest with furrowed-brow focus, like he’s deciding what kind of problem I’m going to be. Sexism drips off him like counterfeit cologne, and my respect plummets.
“I know,” I say coolly, reaching out my hand in greeting, “I’ve accumulated quite the accolades for someone so young. Much like the people who brought us all here today.”
Greg clears his throat and meets my gesture. I give his hand a curt but firm grip, letting the hours wasted squeezing stress balls pay off.
Before Somnium, Greg Williams dragged the UK indie rock band, Kyronious, out of dingy pubs and into the late nineties grunge hurricane.
People talk about Somnium like they were inevitable, but the industry doesn’t move on fate.
Greg chose them. He put his weight behind four anonymous Brits who refused to sand themselves down.
They were a match made in musical heaven.
“Before we proceed,” Greg says, sliding a stack of papers toward me, “I need you to sign an NDA.”
Because nothing says “creative freedom” like a gag order.
I take the contract, skimming through as I follow Neil to a seat a few chairs down from Greg and Tommy Toupee, his lawyer.
Yellow highlighted sections pop from the pages like the waving red flags they are.
No candid filming, limited speaking, restricted access—half my film style gone.
I lift my head from the ridiculous contract, ready to give Mr. Sexist a piece of my mind.
Judas, lead singer and founder of Somnium, writer of lyrics that heaved me from a depression I never thought I’d recover from, fills the doorway like a monolith, spikes on his caped shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the frame.
His presence hits like a physical blow. A prickly pressure blooms in my sternum as though someone shoved a fist through it, not waiting for logic to decide if I’m in danger.
My stomach lurches to my throat, fingers curling around the edge of the conference table.
Deep red paint covers his exposed skin. The horned mask is a half-face sculpted of lacquered crimson, cracked in places like old ceramic.
Black knitted mesh covers the sockets, making his eyes opaque and impenetrable.
Two small fangs protrude from the bottom, curving just enough so the tips put twin divots on either side of his lips.
“Sign those NDAs or walk away right now,” Greg orders, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Yeah, yeah,” Neil mutters, scribbling his signature before handing the pen to me.
I peer down at the NDA. Knowing I’ll break a few of these regardless, I sign, smearing my name as my sweaty palm scrapes across the fresh ink.
The other three members of Somnium file in. Their exposed skin is covered by the same glistening scarlet-maroon as Judas. Duality hums beneath their movements, the humans and myths exposed simultaneously.
Quatour’s half-face demon mask is dyed a muted, bruised red; a darkened brother to Judas’s.
Thick wafts of black curls fall around the curved horns, shining like sun-slicked oil.
Rings sewn into the seams of his trench coat clink softly as he wanders further into the space, his towering frame intimidating even from a distance.
Tria’s mask is the opposite of their bandmates’ in both shape and color; a jagged jawbone attached at the ears, with a matte black finish and a single red stripe down the chin.
Tria is androgyny perfected, with elven-like features that belong in a Renaissance painting.
Their cloak is layered with straps and buckles that look straight out of a fashion editorial, jingling too merrily for the tense room.
Duae steps in with a tilt of her head, her skeletal jaw mask twin to Tria’s, but gleaming gold instead of black.
The carved teeth cast shadows across her pale cheeks, making it seem like she’s grinning even when she’s not.
Gray-blue eyes, bright and amused, glitter at me like sea glass in contrast to the wet paint on her skin as she rakes slender fingers through her dark cropped hair.
“So, what seems to be the problem, mate?” Neil asks, and I’m grateful for his lead while I gather my nerve.
This is not how I imagined this going. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d stand in a room with Somnium. But it’s bittersweet at best, catastrophic at worst. My pulse thuds.
“The problem, mate,” Greg enunciates in his thick accent, sliding the signed NDA to Toupee Tommy in the tan suit, “is that the band feels like this project is going to expose them much more than initially agreed upon.”
The band shuffles next to Greg, none of them bothering to sit. Duae, drummer and co-founder, cocks her head to the side. She assesses me openly, and clearly I don’t meet her expectations.
Where Judas’s mask covers the top half of his face, Duae’s covers the bottom—as if they’re two halves put together. As the two founding members of Somnium, it makes perfect sense, both visually and metaphorically.