Hey did you guys check out the gifts
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The world outside the tinted windows of the black SUV was a frantic, strobing blur of light and motion. Inside, there was only the cool, conditioned air, the scent of expensive leather, and a silence thick with unspoken anticipation. Alex stared out at the chaos, his reflection a pale, superimposed ghost over the flashing lights. He felt a strange sense of temporal vertigo, as if he were simultaneously a sixteen-year-old on his way to the strangest school dance imaginable and a jaded veteran arriving for just another Tuesday at the office.
The vehicle slowed to a stop. A man in a suit opened his door, and the curated silence of the car was instantly shattered by a wall of sound. It was a physical force, a chaotic symphony of shouting voices, the percussive, machine-gun-like shuttering of a thousand cameras, and the high-pitched, electric hum of overwhelming glamour.
Alex swung his legs out and stood, emerging not with the wide-eyed wonder of a teenage nominee, but with the weary, practiced composure of a man who had done this a dozen times before. He wore a simple, elegant black suit, the fabric perfectly tailored, the lines clean and understated. It was a conscious choice, a stark and deliberate contrast to the flamboyant, attention-grabbing attire he knew would be all around him. He was not here to be a spectacle. He was here to do a job.
Finneas emerged after him, looking sharp in a dark suit but with an undeniable discomfort in his posture, as if the clothes were a costume he hadn't quite figured out how to inhabit. He blinked against the onslaught of flashbulbs. Then came Billie. She moved with her usual quiet, deliberate grace, a bubble of self-contained stillness amidst the frenzy. Her outfit was custom, a subversive, slightly oversized black ensemble that seemed to defy the red carpet's traditional rules of glamour. It was a statement of non-participation, an armor of her own design.
They were his anchors. The only two other people on the planet who understood the strange, contradictory reality of their lives.
The moment the three of them stood together on the edge of the carpet, the wall of sound coalesced into a single, roaring name.
"Alex! Over here! Alex, look to your left! Alex! Alex Vance!"
The cacophony of his own name being shouted from a hundred different directions was profoundly disorienting. The flashbulbs were a relentless, blinding assault, a thousand tiny lightning strikes that left dancing spots in his vision. For a split second, the sixteen-year-old boy felt a surge of pure, unadulterated panic, a primal urge to turn and get back in the safe, quiet dark of the car.
Then, the ghost took over.
It was a subtle but immediate shift. Alex's posture straightened. The tension in his shoulders dissolved. His expression, which had been tight with a kind of deer-in-the-headlights shock, smoothed out into a mask of polite, neutral composure. The ghost was a necessary defense mechanism, a battle-hardened professional who knew how to navigate this specific kind of war zone. He moved with a calm, unhurried purpose, his hand making a small, almost imperceptible gesture behind his back, a silent signal to Billie and Finneas to stay close. He began to walk.
A woman with a headset and a clipboard materialized at his elbow. It was Claire, his publicist, looking sharp and ferociously competent. "Okay," she said, her voice a calm, commanding presence in his ear amidst the roar. "First stop, E! News. Just to your right. Keep it light, keep it positive. Smile."
She expertly steered them into the first designated spot, a small square of carpet in front of a camera and a woman with a microphone and a blindingly bright smile.
"Alex Vance! Welcome to the Grammys!" the interviewer chirped, her energy almost painfully effervescent. "You have had such a whirlwind year! Six nominations! How does it feel to be here tonight?"
Alex gave her the polished, pre-rehearsed answer, his voice even and steady, the ghost speaking its lines with perfect delivery. "It's a real honor to be recognized by the Academy. I'm just grateful to be here with my team, the people who made it all possible." He gestured slightly to Billie and Finneas, bringing them into the circle.
"And Billie, Finneas, as co-founders of Echo Chamber Records, this must be an incredible moment for you as well," the interviewer said, turning her bright smile on them.
Finneas, ever the articulate spokesperson, stepped up. "It's surreal," he said, finding his footing. "We started this in a garage a year ago. To be here… it's a testament to what artists can do when they have ownership and control of their own work."
Claire was already moving them along before the interviewer could ask another question. The next stop was Entertainment Tonight, and a reporter with a more serious, journalistic demeanor.
"Alex," the reporter began, his tone intimate, as if they were old friends. "Your song 'Before You Go' has touched so many people on such a deep, emotional level. Can you talk about the personal journey of writing something so vulnerable?"
Here it was. The inevitable question. The one the ghost had prepared for. Alex's mask of calm professionalism remained perfectly intact. He acknowledged the truth without exposing the raw, bleeding wound beneath it.
"I wrote it from a personal place, of course," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But once a song is out in the world, it doesn't belong to me anymore. It belongs to everyone who has ever felt that kind of loss. Their connection to it, the way they've made it their own story… that's what matters now. That's what's been truly humbling to see."
It was a masterful pivot, a deflection so smooth and sincere that it sounded like a profound, heartfelt answer. He had honored the song's origin without sacrificing his own grief to the public's insatiable curiosity.
During the interviews, Billie was a silent, protective presence. She stood slightly behind Alex, her hands in her pockets, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the chaotic crowd of reporters and photographers with a look that was equal parts disdain and anthropological curiosity. She was watching the watchers, deconstructing the absurdity of the entire ritual.
They moved down the line, a slow, grueling gauntlet of repetitive questions and forced smiles. Alex answered questions about his influences, his creative process, his next album. Finneas spoke eloquently about the mission of their label. Billie, when asked a direct question about her upcoming music, would give a cryptic, one-sentence answer that was both intriguing and a clear dismissal. They were a well-oiled machine, each playing their part perfectly.
In a brief lull between an interview with a foreign press outlet and their final stop, the chaos momentarily receded. For a few seconds, no one was shouting their names. Claire was a few feet away, confirming their next position. It was a pocket of relative silence.
Billie leaned in close to Alex, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur that was almost lost in the noise.
"This is so stupid," she said, a small, secret smile playing on her lips.
Alex's professional mask cracked. A genuine, bone-weary smile touched his own lips, the first real expression he'd shown all night. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice just a whisper. "It really is."
It was a quick, grounding moment of shared reality, a quiet acknowledgment that they were both just kids dressed in costumes, performing roles in a bizarre, glittering play. The moment was a lifeline, a reminder of the real world that existed beyond the velvet ropes and flashing lights.
"Last one," Claire said, steering them toward the final platform. "Then we're inside."
They did one more interview, answered the same questions one more time, and then, finally, they were through. They reached the end of the press line, the red carpet giving way to the grand, imposing entrance of the Staples Center. As they walked through the doors, the chaotic, high-pitched noise of the carpet behind them faded, replaced by the deep, muffled roar of the thousands of people already inside the arena.
The performance was over. The main event was about to begin. The ghost relaxed its grip, and for the first time all night, Alex felt the nervous, frantic thumping of his own sixteen-year-old heart.