The face on Alex's laptop looked like it had been chiseled by a branding agency. Impossibly tan, perfectly symmetrical, framed by a haircut so sharp it could cut glass—Marcus Thorne, Executive Vice President of A&R at Omni Records, had the kind of smile that didn't belong to a person. It belonged to a company. His teeth were weaponized: unnaturally white, mathematically aligned, and set in a grin that never touched his eyes. The screen's soft glow reflected off his designer cufflinks, the gold Omni logo gleaming like a corporate seal of conquest.
Alex sat at his desk, shoulders squared, hoodie zipped halfway, the faintest crease between his brows betraying focus. Behind him, his bedroom blurred into muted tones: guitars on stands, a cluttered whiteboard of tour plans, a half-drunk can of Yerba Mate. It could've been any teenager's room. But today, it was the war room.
To the left, just out of frame, his father sat in a chair by the window—silent, still, a legal formality with a pulse. The official adult on paper. But this meeting wasn't his.
"Alex, my man," Thorne said, voice smooth as silk dipped in money. "It's great to finally put a face to the music. Gotta say—'Lost Boy,' 'Youth'—you're blowing minds over here. Raw, electric, completely unfiltered. That's gold. You've got the thing everyone else is trying to fake."
Alex nodded once, polite but impassive. Inside, the ghost—older, wearier, infinitely colder—logged the compliment and filed it under "Bait." He'd heard it before. A dozen boardrooms. A hundred elevator pitches. Different lives, same game. This wasn't a conversation. It was a hunt. The shark had scented blood.
Thorne leaned closer, voice lowering like they were old friends conspiring. "Look, I'll cut the nonsense. You're one kid climbing Everest barefoot. We've got the helicopter. We're ready to make a solo deal. Two albums, seven figures up front. And more than that—we're offering Echo Chamber a strategic partnership. We take you under the Omni umbrella, build your own imprint, supercharge your whole team. Worldwide marketing, global press, the works. You're already a star, Alex. Let us build you a galaxy."
The pitch was tight. Slick. Designed to overwhelm. He delivered it like a favor. A gift. Like Alex should be thanking him.
Alex let the offer sit in the air for a full second. Let it breathe. He could feel his father glance sideways at him, but he didn't move. Didn't blink. He was wearing the mask now—the one the ghost had learned to mold perfectly: calm, clear, unreadable.
"Thank you for the generous proposal, Mr. Thorne," Alex said finally, his voice low but precise. "I've reviewed the contract your assistant sent. There are a few items I'd like to discuss."
He reached for the paper on the desk, though he didn't need it. Every line had been burned into his memory like scar tissue.
"Section 4b," he began. "The royalty rate is listed at fourteen percent—but that's post-recoupment, after deducting recording costs, promo budgets, video production, and a thirty percent 'packaging' fee. Since those costs are controlled entirely by Omni, that essentially guarantees the artist will never see net profits. That's not a royalty. That's a reverse mortgage."
Thorne's smile twitched, just slightly. "That's standard language. It protects our investment."
Alex gave a measured nod. "I'm sure. I'm also curious about the 'marketing support' clause. It outlines a commitment but offers no minimum spend, no deliverables, no accountability mechanism. What does 'support' mean, legally, if there's no baseline?"
The smile froze. The eyes narrowed, imperceptibly.
"And the acquisition offer," Alex continued, each word edged with ice. "We're not interested. I'm building a company, not a sub-brand. Omni's model is about owning content. Ours is about curating creators. We don't see that as compatible."
Thorne blinked once. It was the closest he came to flinching. The shark had expected awe. Maybe some nerves. A flurry of questions. He'd expected a teenager playing at mogul.
What he got instead was a polished corporate rejection, dressed in the syntax of someone who'd already survived three label cycles in another lifetime.
Alex leaned forward, echoing Thorne's earlier posture. The camera caught the glint in his eyes. Not defiance—certainty.
"We're not looking for a shortcut," he said quietly. "We're building the road."
For a moment, the call went still. No one breathed. Behind the synthetic tan and tailored suit, something reptilian flickered in Thorne's expression—confusion, then offense, then a quick recovery. But the balance had shifted. The performance was over.
"Well," Thorne said, too brightly, "a young man who knows his worth. That's rare. The offer stands, if you change your mind."
"I appreciate that," Alex said evenly, already knowing it was a dead promise. "Thanks again for your time."
He ended the call.
The screen went black.
Silence filled the room, deep and ringing. Alex sat back slowly, the adrenaline draining from his limbs like air from a pressurized cabin. His breath hitched, just once, and then he closed the laptop with a soft click that felt like the closing of a vault.
It was over. For now.
He turned toward the window.
His father stared at him—not alarmed, not disapproving, just… stunned. The man's mouth opened, but for a few seconds, no sound came out.
"Where did you learn to talk like that?" he finally asked. "Was that… was that all you?"
Alex gave him a small, tired smile. The kind that said more than he could ever explain. He couldn't describe the strange architecture of his mind, the ghost who had lived this before—the legalese, the clauses, the culture of exploitation dressed up as opportunity. He wasn't gifted. He was prepared.
He wasn't a genius. He was a survivor.
"I've been studying," Alex said simply.
His father just shook his head, awe still written across his face.
Alex turned back to the screen. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, hunched shoulders, a face too young for the wars it had fought.
He didn't feel triumphant. Not exactly. He felt… resolved.
The shark had swum away. For now. But there would be others. There were always others.
Still, he had won this round. Not with bravado. Not with ego. But with clarity. With conviction. He had defended Echo Chamber not just as a label—but as an idea. A resistance.
The noise of the industry would come again, louder, sharper, better dressed. But Alex had found his footing. And in a world that wanted to consume him, that was the most dangerous thing he could do.
He had said no.
And that meant—for now—he was still free.