The building smells like polished ambition.
Glass doors.
White floors.
Muted conversations that sound expensive.
Zane signs in under Calder.
The receptionist doesn't look up twice.
That should feel normal.
It doesn't.
The conference room is colder than necessary.
Long table.
Screens mounted on the wall.
His face already projected behind the executives.
A curated slideshow.
Zane Calder:
Streaming growth.
Demographic expansion.
Market positioning.
He sits down.
Crosses one ankle over his knee.
Relaxed posture.
He knows this room.
He's been in versions of it before.
Just… smaller.
"First of all," one of them says, smiling professionally, "we're thrilled."
Another nods.
"You have something raw. Marketable. Magnetic."
Magnetic.
He nods back.
That's the correct response.
Slides shift.
Color palettes.
Mood boards.
Styling concepts.
"We want to elevate you."
Elevate.
He's heard that word three times already.
"Your current sound has edge," someone says. "But we see potential for crossover."
Crossover.
Translation:
Soften the edges.
Broaden appeal.
Widen reach.
"We're thinking a stronger melodic hook. Less grit. More polish."
His jaw tightens for half a second.
Not enough for anyone to notice.
"I like grit," he says casually.
They smile like he made a joke.
"And grit can evolve."
They play the demo.
The first single under the contract.
His name already in the corner of the screen.
The instrumental swells.
It's big.
Layered.
Clean.
Calculated.
His voice has been autotuned slightly higher in the sample track.
Not drastically.
Just… brighter.
Sharper.
Less him.
"What do you think?" someone asks.
Every pair of eyes shifts to him.
He leans back.
Listens again.
It's not bad.
That's the problem.
It's good.
Catchy.
Radio-ready.
He can imagine it climbing charts.
He just can't imagine singing it without feeling slightly detached from his own mouth.
"It's different," he says.
"Exactly," the head producer replies. "Growth."
They go over performance schedules.
Launch timeline.
Media appearances.
Brand alignment.
Image adjustments.
His calendar fills in real time on the screen.
Interviews.
Showcases.
Promo shoots.
Strategic collaborations.
His name is slotted into spaces like a movable asset.
He watches it happen.
And for the first time—
He feels slightly… placed.
Not choosing.
Placed.
After the meeting, his new stylist walks him to another room.
Racks of clothes line the walls.
Neutral tones.
Structured silhouettes.
High-fashion minimalism.
"We're refining your look," she says gently.
"Refining."
There it is again.
She holds up a jacket.
Sharp lines.
No softness.
"This leans more metropolitan."
He looks at it.
Thinks of his leather jacket back in Aetheridge.
Worn sleeves.
Slight tear near the pocket.
History in the fabric.
He nods.
"Sure."
She smiles, pleased.
Later, alone in the penthouse, he opens the demo again.
Plays it through the speakers.
The city noise hums faintly beneath it.
He sings along.
Just to test.
The notes sit in his throat differently.
Not uncomfortable.
Just unfamiliar.
He stops midway.
Silence swallows the room.
His phone lights up.
Sunny:
How was the first meeting?
He stares at the message.
Types:
Big.
Deletes it.
Types:
Productive.
Sends.
She responds quickly.
Proud of you.
His chest tightens unexpectedly.
Proud.
He closes his eyes.
Plays the demo again.
This time he imagines singing it on stage.
Lights blinding.
Crowd screaming.
Name projected ten feet high.
It would look incredible.
It would feel—
He doesn't finish that thought.
Instead, he walks to the bathroom.
The mirror reflects him clearly.
Same hair.
Same jawline.
Same sunglasses resting on the counter.
Same.
But not entirely.
He leans closer.
"Growth," he mutters quietly.
The word feels clinical in his mouth.
He straightens.
Steps back.
The city outside the window pulses with movement.
Opportunity.
Expansion.
Elevation.
He told himself he wanted bigger.
He meant it.
But as he turns off the bathroom light—
A small, unwelcome thought lingers.
If they elevate him enough…
Will there still be anything of him left to recognize?