The warm, fuzzy feeling from the global thirst trap was still buzzing under my skin when Sunday decided to bring me back down to earth. In the best way possible.
"Sir, the volume of collaboration and business inquiries has reached a level that requires prioritization," she announced, her voice cutting through my self-congratulatory haze.
My main monitor, which had been full of people swooning, flickered and changed. Now it was a sleek, intimidating list of names. Big names. I whistled softly.
There was @MariahKari_Official—the actual queen of pop herself—with a formal request sent through her label. There was @Heminem, the rap god, whose people had reached out asking about "potential studio time." There were emails from producers, directors, even a few big-shot authors asking about adaptation rights for Silent Hill. It was a stack of opportunities that would have made my old self faint dead away.
"Damn," I muttered, scrolling through the list. "They're not wasting any time, are they?"
"The influx began approximately 3.2 hours after the conclusion of the stream and has been increasing exponentially," Sunday confirmed.
A part of me, the 35-year-old otaku who'd dreamed of this very thing, was screaming 'YES! SAY YES TO EVERYTHING!' But the newer, slightly more cautious part of me—the part that had seen how quickly this world could turn—put a hand on that inner fanboy's shoulder.
"Alright, Sunday…. Standard polite deflection protocol. Send them all the same canned response. 'Thank you for your incredible interest in Meteor Studio. We are currently reviewing all collaboration opportunities and will be in touch should a project align with our creative vision. We appreciate your patience.' Blah, blah, blah."
"Acknowledged. Implementing response template now."
I leaned back, the initial starstruck feeling fading into something more pragmatic. It was flattering, sure. But right now, Meteor Studio was a castle made of smoke and mirrors. Incredibly powerful, visible from space, but if someone managed to get a strong enough fan, they could blow it all away.
We had cultural power, digital power, and a shit-ton of money. But we had no real-world influence. No leverage. No physical presence.
The big companies were avoiding me now because it was good business. But that could change. If they ever decided that containing me was more profitable than avoiding me, I'd be a sitting duck. A very rich, very famous sitting duck, but a duck nonetheless.
I started pacing the length of my room, the plush carpet muffling my steps. My mind was racing, playing out scenarios.
Working with these artists wasn't just about sending a few files back and forth. It meant meetings. Conference calls. It meant someone, somewhere, would eventually need to be in a room with the mysterious "Sael VT" or his representative. And that representative would have to be me. There was no one else.
I'd have to step out from behind the mask. And the second I did that, I was vulnerable.
"Think about it, Sunday," I said, thinking out loud. "Let's say I do a track with Heminem…. It's a massive hit. He's a cool guy, he wants to do a video. Maybe even a live performance. I show up to a studio in New L.A.... and what? Thundra Corp has guys who'd happily pay a janitor to slip a tracker on my car. Or Global Music, still salty about Millie, hires a private eye to get a picture of my face. Once they know who I am, where I live..."
The thought was a cold splash of water. It wasn't just about me. It was about Mom. Grandma Nadia, Aunt Vera, Bella, Emily. This cramped, loving, chaotic apartment. I'd brought this attention down on us. The last thing I could do was lead a pack of corporate wolves right to our door.
"...it all falls apart," I finished, stopping by the window to look out at the smog-choked city. "The mystery is our biggest armor. The second it's gone; we're not a studio anymore. We're just a target."
"Your assessment of the risk is logically sound," Sunday replied. "Anonymity is our primary defensive asset. Its compromise would exponentially increase the probability of corporate espionage, blackmail attempts, and potential physical coercion."
"Exactly. So no collabs… Not yet. Not until we're untouchable."
I turned away from the window, the solution clicking into place with perfect clarity. We couldn't stay a ghost forever. But we could build a body for the ghost to inhabit. A fortress.
"Sunday, we need to get real."
"Clarify."
"We need an office. A real, physical, brick-and-mortar Meteor Studio headquarters. Not for me. I'm not going there. But we need a legal address. A place where mail goes…. A place where we can hire actual people."
I started ticking points off on my fingers. "We need a ruthless lawyer on retainer. We need a slick PR firm—or better yet, we hire our own in-house PR person. We need accountants who know how to handle the stupid amount of money we're making. We need a security detail for the damn building itself. We need a receptionist to field calls."
I was on a roll now, the plan unfolding in my head. "This... this 'real' company becomes our face to the world. It handles all the boring, legal, human stuff. It signs the papers, it hires the staff, it pays the taxes. It gives us legitimacy. It makes us a real entity, not just a PO box and a Vapor store page."
I gestured around my room. "You and I, we stay right here. You handle the digital empire…. You make the games, you mix the music, you manage the servers. You are the unstoppable, invisible brain. But this new company... it'll be the body. The suit and tie. The public face that takes the meetings so I don't have to."
"A bifurcated operational structure," Sunday mused.
"The digital creative core remains secure and anonymous, while a separate physical entity manages corporate and legal interfacing. This would significantly reduce your exposure risk while granting the studio tangible political and economic influence."
"Right. It's the next step. We're not just an internet sensation anymore. We're a corporation. And it's time we started acting like one." I finally sat back down, the energy of the idea coursing through me. The fear was still there, but it was being slowly boxed in by a plan. We were going to build a fortress. And from inside it, we could do anything.