Shade had scheduled the call for 19:00.
Not because she cared.
But because 19:00 was clean. Efficient. Respectable. A time that looked like it belonged on a business calendar, not in the private collapse of someone's emotional control.
Shade stared at the number on her notes app like it was a countdown to execution.
19:00 — Call Blaze.
Under it, she'd written:
Concept overview
Expectations
Schedule
Vocal role
Visual role
Training / rehearsal discipline
Contract / consent
Questions
It looked perfect.
It was also a lie.
Shade wasn't afraid of the call.
Shade wasn't nervous.
Shade wasn't thinking about the fact that Blaze would be hearing her voice directly—without editing, without distance, without a screen between them.
Shade was completely fine.
So fine that she'd practiced saying Hello out loud three times in her bathroom mirror.
So fine that she'd opened the call screen twice and closed it again like she was disarming a bomb.
So fine that she'd spent fifteen minutes deciding whether "Hey" sounded too casual.
Shade didn't do crushes.
And yet here she was—preparing for a phone call like it was war.
She tried again, pacing slowly in her room, phone in hand, rehearsing the first line.
"Hello, Blaze."
Too stiff.
"Hey, Blaze."
Too familiar.
"Hi, Blaze—thanks for taking the time."
Too polite. Too submissive. Like she was grateful.
Shade wasn't grateful.
Shade was in control.
She stopped in front of her mirror and stared at herself.
Same outfit as always: monochrome layers, sharp lines. Black choker snug at her throat like a boundary. Hair dark and clean, face composed.
Everything about her looked untouched.
Shade raised her phone like she was holding an invisible script.
"Hello Blaze," she said calmly.
Her voice sounded normal.
Then her stomach flipped like it didn't believe her.
Shade's jaw clenched. "Pathetic," she whispered to her reflection.
The reflection didn't argue.
Shade walked back to her desk and sat down, exhaling slowly. She opened her laptop. Re-read Nova's notes. Re-read Blaze's message.
I'm interested.
Those two words had taken up permanent residence in her chest.
Shade pulled up Blaze's profile again—not because she wanted to, but because she needed to "research."
She watched a short clip of Blaze laughing with the guitarist and rapper. Blaze's eyes crinkled slightly when she smiled. Like the world wasn't heavy to her. Like she didn't even know what it was like to carry a storm in your ribs.
Shade stared.
Then, without thinking, she whispered:
"She's… unreal."
The room stayed silent.
Then Shade's phone buzzed.
A message.
From Echo.
Shade didn't even have to open it.
She already knew.
She opened it anyway.
Echo: so?? are u gonna marry her on the phone or what 😏
Shade stared at the screen.
Then she typed back:
Shade: I am going to discuss logistics.
Echo responded instantly.
Echo: LOGISTICS 😭😭😭Echo: u mean her lips? 😏
Shade locked her phone and set it face down like it had insulted her ancestors.
She turned back to her notes and tried to return to professionalism.
Logistics.
This was about Echora.
This was about the debut.
This was about building a lineup strong enough to survive the public.
Shade wrote a new sentence under the "overview" section:
Blaze's brand aligns with the aesthetic.
Then she erased it.
Too obvious.
She wrote:
Blaze has cross-platform potential.
Then erased it too.
Because she could barely see through the pulse in her fingertips.
Shade leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
In her mind, she imagined Blaze answering.
Imagined her voice.
Deep? Soft? Teasing? Calm?
Shade pictured Blaze saying her name.
Shade.
The thought hit like a punch.
Shade's eyes opened immediately.
No.
No imagining.
This was not fantasy.
This was not—
A knock on her door.
Shade froze.
Then she remembered: no one was there. She lived alone. There was no knock.
Her heartbeat had just gotten too loud.
Shade pressed her fingers to her temple and forced herself to breathe.
In.Out.
Control.
She looked down at the time.
18:41.
Nineteen minutes.
Shade stood again, pacing, phone in hand.
She rehearsed the next line, quieter this time—almost a whisper.
"Thank you for replying," she murmured. "I respect your work."
Her voice shook slightly on the word respect.
Shade's face twisted, angry at herself.
She tried again.
"Thank you for replying. We'd like to offer you a role in Echora."
Better.
Safe.
Cold.
Shade could do cold.
But then the other voice—her own voice—slipped in beneath it, dangerous and soft:
I want you near.I want you in my world.I want you where I can see you.
Shade swallowed hard and forced her mind shut like a door.
No.
Not that.
Not ever.
Shade looked at her phone again.
18:57.
Her skin buzzed like static.
She opened the call screen and hovered over Blaze's contact.
Her thumb trembled slightly.
She hated that Blaze had this effect on her without even trying.
Shade whispered to herself one last time, voice barely audible, as if saying it softer made it safer.
"Stay calm."
Then:
19:00.
Shade pressed call.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Shade's entire body went still.
And somewhere in the city, Blaze was about to pick up—
and Shade—who didn't do crushes—was about to negotiate the surrender of her own heart.