The Vance family dining room had been commandeered for the evening, transformed into the makeshift boardroom for the first official quarterly meeting of Echo Chamber Records. The atmosphere was a strange but comfortable hybrid of a corporate strategy session and a casual hangout. A small projector whirred softly on a stack of books, beaming a crisp spreadsheet onto a portable screen set up against the wall. Neatly printed financial reports, bound in simple black folders, sat at each of the four place settings. In the center of the large oak table, however, next to a pitcher of water and four glasses, sat a half-eaten bowl of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa—a small, defiant monument to their teenage reality.
Alex sat at the head of the table, the ghost's CEO persona firmly in place. He was in his element, his voice calm and authoritative as he clicked through the slides of a presentation he had meticulously prepared. His father sat to his right, a legal pad in front of him, his expression a familiar mixture of parental pride and a quiet, constant struggle to keep up with the terminology. Across from them, Billie and Finneas listened, their usual creative-session energy channeled into a new kind of professional focus.
"Okay," Alex began, pointing to a brightly colored pie chart on the screen. "Let's start with the Q1 financials. As you can see, our primary revenue stream was, unsurprisingly, Billie's single."
He clicked to the next slide, a graph showing a dramatic, near-vertical upward curve. "'Ocean Eyes' has exceeded every projection we made. It's a certified platinum hit, and its long-tail streaming performance is showing a slower decay rate than the industry average, which is a very good sign for sustained catalog revenue."
Finneas let out a low whistle, a grin spreading across his face as he looked at the hard, undeniable data of their success. The numbers on the screen were a validation of their artistic instincts, a testament to the fact that their quiet, atmospheric song had found a massive, global audience.
"The SoundCloud strategy for Billie's early, more experimental tracks also worked better than we could have hoped," Alex continued, clicking to a new slide showing a flowchart of fan conversion rates. "We built a dedicated, core fanbase before we ever went to mainstream radio. The data shows that those early listeners, the ones who discovered her on their own, have a ninety percent higher engagement and merch-purchasing rate than the listeners who found her through traditional channels. We didn't just build an audience; we built a community. And that is a far more valuable asset."
They spent the next hour dissecting the numbers, the ghost's clinical vocabulary now a shared language. They talked about merch profit margins, about the higher-than-expected revenue from the vinyl pre-orders, about the successful, low-cost launch of their first new artist, Asher. The label wasn't just solvent; it was a thriving, profitable, and remarkably efficient independent entity.
The agenda then shifted, dedicating a significant portion of the meeting to its most valuable, and most important, asset: Billie's career.
"The EP is almost done," Finneas reported, his producer hat now firmly on. "We have five tracks that feel solid. The sound is… evolving." He plugged his phone into a small speaker in the center of the table and played a short, ten-second snippet of a new track. The sound that filled the room was a stark, menacing departure from the ethereal dream-pop of "Ocean Eyes." A deep, distorted bass line throbbed under a jagged, minimalist beat, and over it, a single, whispered, multitracked vocal from Billie, sounding more like a threat than a melody. It was dark, strange, and utterly compelling.
Billie, who had been quiet but intensely engaged for the entire meeting, leaned forward. "The video for that one needs to be unsettling," she said, her voice low and firm. Her input wasn't about the business; it was about the art, about protecting the raw, authentic vision she was developing. "No beauty shots. No narrative. Just a single, uncomfortable, long take. I want people to feel like they're watching something they shouldn't be."
They spent another thirty minutes discussing her trajectory—the marketing plan for the EP, the timeline for her first, small-venue live shows, the importance of maintaining the mystique and artistic integrity of her brand. She was an active, driving force in the conversation, a quiet but unshakeable co-founder with a crystal-clear vision for her own future.
Finally, Alex cleared his throat, bringing the focus back to the front of the room. The mood shifted slightly. He clicked to the final slide in his presentation. It was a blank, white screen.
"Okay," he said. "The last item on the agenda is… me." He took a slow, steadying breath. "I had a meeting yesterday. A casting director and music supervisor for film. Her name is Sarah Finn."
The name landed with a quiet thud in the room. Finneas's eyes went wide. Even as a high school student, he knew who that was. It was a name that carried an immense weight of prestige and power.
Alex calmly, methodically, laid out the offer. He described the film—a gritty, character-driven superhero project. He explained the role he had been offered—not just a song on the soundtrack, but a seat at the table, a collaboration with the main composer on the entire score.
The reactions were immediate, and varied.
His father was the first to speak, his voice laced with a practical, parental concern that cut through the sudden, star-struck silence. "Alex, hold on. A movie score? That's… that's a massive undertaking. You're still in your junior year of high school. You have your own album to think about, you're running this entire label… can you really take on something of that scale? Is there enough time in the day?"
"A film score?" Finneas breathed, his mind immediately jumping to the creative possibilities, the awe in his voice overriding any practical concerns. "Dude, that's a whole different universe. The compositional freedom, the orchestral arrangements… that's a dream gig. That's insane." He was excited for Alex, not just as a friend, but as a fellow musician who could appreciate the sheer, breathtaking scale of the opportunity.
Billie's reaction was the most complex. She had been watching him the entire time he was speaking, her expression a quiet, searching thing. She wasn't thinking about the workload or the creative possibilities. She was looking at him, at the boy sitting at the head of the table.
"You want to do this?" she asked, her voice quiet. It wasn't a challenge or a question about his ability. It was a genuine inquiry into his own desires, a question that separated the CEO from the person.
He met her gaze from across the table. In her eyes, he saw not the co-founder or the artist, but the friend who had sat with him on the porch swing and warned him about getting lost in the noise. He gave her a small, honest nod.
"Yeah," he said, the word a simple, unadorned truth. "I really do."
He then turned back to the group, the CEO persona sliding back into place as he addressed his father's very valid concerns. He explained the strategic importance of the move, his voice regaining its confident, analytical edge.
"This isn't just about me," he said, his gaze sweeping from his father to Finneas and back to Billie. "This diversifies my career, yes, but more importantly, it strengthens the label. It establishes a new revenue stream for Echo Chamber. It opens doors for all of us that are currently locked. Doors for future sync licenses, for other scoring opportunities for Finneas, for Billie's music to be featured in major films. It makes Echo Chamber more than just a successful indie pop label. It makes us a real player in the wider industry. It gives us more power, more leverage, and more long-term stability. It's a move that protects all of us."
His logic was cold, clear, and undeniable. They all saw the bigger picture, the brilliant, long-term strategic thinking behind the decision. It was a move from the ghost's playbook, a way to build the fortress higher, to make its walls thicker. After a brief discussion, a few more questions from his father about contracts and timelines, they reached a decision. It was unanimous. He should do it.
The vote marked a formal evolution in the label's strategy. They were no longer just a group of talented kids reacting to an unexpected viral success. They were a company, a team of young founders actively, intelligently planning for long-term, diversified growth. They were building an empire.
After the meeting officially adjourned, his father left to review the notes, and Finneas went to the kitchen to get them all a drink. For a moment, Alex and Billie were left alone in the dining room, the projector still humming softly, its blank white light illuminating the empty screen.
They started clearing the table together, picking up the empty chip bowl and the scattered folders.
"Just…" Billie began, her voice quiet as she stacked the financial reports into a neat pile. "Make sure you still have time to sleep." She bumped his shoulder gently with her own, a small, familiar gesture of affection and concern.
It was a quiet echo of her previous warnings, a gentle, loving reminder that even as he was orchestrating their ascent into the stratosphere, she was still watching out for the boy, not just the CEO. Still making sure that in his quest to build a safe harbor for everyone else, he didn't forget to save a little space for himself.
"I will," he said, a small, grateful smile on his face. And for the first time in a long time, he thought he might actually mean it.