The day "Starboy" dropped, the internet caught fire. Twitter trended, TikToks exploded, and think pieces surfaced within hours dissecting the death of the "old Alex Vance." But behind the spectacle, Alex had orchestrated something far more ambitious: a dual release—two sides of the same coin. While "Starboy" was a controlled detonation, a laser-guided explosion of ego and reinvention, its companion was a whisper, subtle and haunting. A counterpoint in every way.
That same Friday, quietly, humbly, a new artist from Echo Chamber made his debut: Alec Benjamin. His first official track, Paper Crown, didn't come with a high-budget video or a fashion-forward persona. It came with a nylon-string guitar and a tremble in his voice. And that was all it needed.
The song was almost painfully fragile. There were no drums, no reverb-heavy synths, just Alec's fingerpicked guitar and his breath-close vocal—delivered like a secret you weren't supposed to hear. It told the story of a girl who built an imaginary kingdom to shield herself from loneliness, a childlike monarch in a crumbling castle of make-believe. The lyrics unfolded like chapters, each verse deepening the sadness, each detail more precise than the last. No hook. No repetition. Just one continuous unraveling.
While "Starboy" conquered clubs, playlists, and primetime charts, Paper Crown traveled differently. It drifted. It passed from phone to phone like a note passed in class. It trended not because of virality, but because of intimacy. College dorms, late-night drives, solitary headphones—this was where it thrived.
Within a week, critics were calling it the smartest A&R move of the year. The Fader wrote:
"On the same Friday, Alex Vance became The Weeknd and Sufjan Stevens. Echo Chamber isn't just producing stars—it's shaping the soundscape of our time."
Alec Benjamin was instantly recognized not as a one-hit wonder or viral gimmick, but as a genuine, literary voice in pop—quiet, introspective, essential.
And yet, even in the glow of this dual triumph, Alex felt something deeper gnawing at him: distance.
A week later, Alex found a rare oasis of time—an entire evening cleared, carved out of chaos. No meetings, no sessions. Just Olivia.
They hadn't had a real date in months. Bizaardvark was in full production grind, and Alex was running Echo Chamber with the intensity of a Fortune 500 exec. Their connection had become fragmented, patched together with half-hearted FaceTimes and three-minute voice notes. Tonight was supposed to change that.
He picked her up from her parents' place in a black vintage coupe. She wore a simple black dress, minimal makeup, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked like Liv again—not the Nickelodeon actress, not the face on every tween merch stand. Just Liv.
He drove them to a secluded restaurant in Malibu, perched above the ocean, where floor-to-ceiling windows caught the sunset and scattered it like fire across the waves. For a moment, the world stopped. No fans. No deadlines. Just the low murmur of conversation, clinking glasses, and them.
They talked. Really talked. About nothing and everything. A weird on-set story. A dumb horror movie they both hated. An argument over which ice cream flavor was objectively superior. They laughed until they couldn't breathe. She reached across the table and touched his face like she was memorizing it.
"I missed this," she said softly.
"Me too," he replied, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. "More than I know how to say."
For a few precious minutes, the empire didn't exist. There was no Echo Chamber, no Starboy. Just two people in love.
And then his phone lit up.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Not one call. A series. His dad. His lawyer. Three missed calls. Twelve unread messages.
Alex hesitated. Olivia looked at him with quiet dread.
"I promised I wouldn't," he muttered. But something in his gut was already twisting. He picked up the phone, checked the subject line of the forwarded email. Froze.
Cease and Desist – Unauthorized Use of "Shape of My Heart."
The guitar riff in Lucid Dreams. The heartbeat of the entire track.
It wasn't a sample—they hadn't used the original audio. But the melody? Too close. Too recognizable. The letter was from the publishing giant that held Sting's catalog—brutal, litigious, and unimpressed by artistic intent.
They were demanding a retroactive license, songwriting credit, and over 80% of all profits past and future. Millions of dollars. A legal war that could decimate the song, Juice's career, and Echo Chamber's credibility.
Alex stared at the screen, his heart pounding.
Olivia was already watching him change. His shoulders tensed. His face hardened. The glow of the candles flickered against the sudden storm in his eyes.
"What is it?" she asked, already knowing.
He looked at her, torn and full of guilt. "It's 'Lucid Dreams.' There's… a serious problem. I have to go. Now."
She blinked, trying to keep her smile steady. "Of course. Go. It's okay."
He kissed her cheek. "I'll call you a car. I'm so sorry." And then he was gone, coat in hand, phone to his ear, already spitting orders.
Twenty minutes later, Olivia sat alone in the backseat of a black SUV, her head resting against the window. The sun had set completely. The highway sparkled with coastal lights, but the view was empty to her.
She clutched her phone, half-hoping he'd text. He didn't.
A year ago, at the Oscars, he'd told her love and art weren't a choice. That they could have both.
Tonight, in the silence that followed his absence, she wondered if that had only been true in the stories he wrote.
And she couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, she'd been left behind in a dream that belonged to him.