The call comes at 11:43 p.m.
He almost ignores it.
Doesn't recognize the number at first.
Then he remembers.
Law office.
He answers immediately.
"Tell me you have something."
A pause.
"We might."
Might is better than nothing.
He's back in the office the next morning.
Coffee untouched.
Contract open again.
Highlighted beyond recognition.
The lawyer taps a section near the back.
"Clause 14.3 — Creative Representation Integrity."
Zane leans forward.
It reads:
The Artist retains the right to maintain a core identity consistent with their pre-contract public brand and creative history. Substantial deviation may constitute misrepresentation.
He reads it twice.
Then a third time.
"That's vague," he says.
"It is," the lawyer agrees. "Which works both ways."
They lay it out carefully.
Pre-contract catalog:
Grit.
Minimal polish.
Personal lyricism.
Independently curated image.
Post-contract rollout:
Rewritten lyrical themes.
Heavily altered production tone.
Visual rebrand.
Scripted interviews reframing origin story.
"Did they materially alter your creative identity?" the lawyer asks.
"Yes."
The answer comes faster this time.
Not defensive.
Certain.
"But you signed off on the changes," the lawyer adds.
"I complied," Zane corrects.
"Did you explicitly waive identity rights?"
He scans the clause again.
No.
He didn't.
He signed production approvals.
Styling approvals.
Performance schedules.
But he never formally transferred authorship of brand identity.
The lawyer leans back.
"If we argue that the deviation undermines your established public persona, we can claim breach of representation integrity."
Zane exhales slowly.
"That holds?"
"It's not guaranteed. But it's viable."
Viable.
That's stronger than might.
He walks out of the office into daylight that feels different.
Less oppressive.
The streets of Aetheridge aren't grand.
They're uneven.
Familiar.
Uncurated.
For the first time in months—
His shoulders don't feel pulled upward.
He feels something returning.
Not ego.
Not defiance.
Control.
He calls his agent.
She answers on the third ring.
"You found something," she says immediately.
He almost smiles.
"There's a clause."
Silence.
Then a measured sigh.
"They'll fight it."
"I know."
"This could get messy."
"It already is."
Another pause.
"You're sure about this?"
He looks down the street.
At nothing dramatic.
Just people walking.
Cars passing.
Ordinary life unfolding.
"Yes," he says.
And this time, it isn't about missing Sunny.
It isn't about hating the city.
It's about authorship.
About whether his name means something he chose.
"Okay," she says finally. "I'll initiate the review."
That night, he doesn't avoid the mirror.
He stands in front of it deliberately.
No sunglasses.
No jacket.
No stylist's adjustments.
Just him.
He studies the face looking back.
Less polished.
More tired.
But clearer.
"They don't own that," he mutters quietly.
Not the face.
The identity.
He built himself once from nothing.
He can defend himself now from something bigger.
For the first time since signing—
Hope doesn't feel reckless.
It feels structured.
Like a door that was always there.
He just had to read closely enough to see it.