Jagged Stone didn't call.
He showed up.
The studio door rattled under the force of his knock, heavy and impatient. Luka knew who it was before he opened it. He always did. Some instincts never faded, no matter how many years he spent pretending he'd escaped them.
Jagged filled the doorway—leather jacket, sunglasses despite the low light, presence that demanded space. He looked around the room like it belonged to him by default.
"So," Jagged said, voice rough with smoke and familiarity. "You finally wrote something honest."
Luka didn't smile.
"It wasn't meant to be released," he replied, even though they both knew that wasn't true. Not really.
Jagged stepped inside without waiting for permission. He stopped in front of the scattered cables, the notebooks, the guitar resting against the amp like it was exhausted too.
"You knew what would happen," Jagged said. "You don't drop a song like that and stay invisible."
Luka folded his arms. "I didn't put my name on it."
Jagged snorted. "Please. I've heard every lie you've ever tried to tell yourself."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
"That song?" Jagged continued. "It wasn't about fame. Or rebellion. Or me." His gaze sharpened behind the glasses. "So who was it about?"
Luka hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Jagged exhaled slowly. "Careful," he said. "You fall for someone like that, and the industry will chew you up. Especially if it's him."
Luka's jaw tightened. "You don't know him."
"I know the machine around him," Jagged snapped. "I lived in it. I survived it."
"Did you?" Luka asked quietly.
The silence that followed was brittle.
Jagged turned away first.
"I didn't come here to fight," he said. "I came to warn you. You want a career that lasts? Don't let yourself be someone's secret."
Luka looked down at his hands. They were steady. His chest wasn't.
"I won't," he said.
Jagged studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. Approval, or resignation—it was hard to tell.
"Good," he said. "Because you deserve more than echoes."
When the door closed behind him, the studio felt emptier than before.
Adrien watched the interview twice.
Once with the sound on. Once without.
Jagged Stone sat across from the host, laughing easily, charisma effortless. Halfway through, the conversation shifted.
"There's been a lot of buzz around this anonymous track," the host said. "People think it might be connected to you—or your son."
Jagged smiled, sharp and practiced. "Music's allowed to hurt," he said. "But if it's real, it shouldn't hide forever."
Adrien's chest tightened.
He muted the TV the second time, watching Jagged's expression instead—the way something hardened when his son was mentioned. Adrien wondered what it would be like to have a father who spoke about you like you were allowed to exist as yourself.
His phone buzzed.
A voicemail.
Luka.
Adrien didn't listen to it right away.
He sat on the edge of his bed, hands shaking, afraid that if he pressed play he would lose what little control he had left.
When he finally did, Luka's voice filled the room—soft, steady, trying not to break.
"Hey," Luka said. "You don't have to call back. I just… I wanted you to know the song wasn't meant to hurt you. It was just the truth coming out sideways."
A pause.
"I meant what I said. I won't be a secret. But I didn't stop caring."
The call ended.
Adrien pressed his phone to his chest and let the soundless ache take over.
Outside, Paris kept moving.
Inside, something had shifted.