Her bedroom air hung still, soft and lavender-scented, broken only by the gentle hum of her PC's cooling fans. Millie Kyleish sat at her vanity – a sleek, minimalist piece, yes, but currently a beautiful chaos of expensive skincare serums, stray guitar picks, a half-eaten protein bar, and a spaghetti junction of charging cables. Her fingers worked a dollop of pearlescent moisturizer into her skin, movements so practiced they were automatic.
But her mind was miles away, replaying the same few moments on a loop.
Him.
Sael Hardcox.
A slow, involuntary smile curved her lips as she massaged her temples. This… attraction. It was bizarre. The old Sael? A memory she'd rather forget. He'd been this skittish, pale ghost of a boy, always hiding behind effeminate clothes and a permanent sneer, treating her and Emily with a disdain that felt both petty and deeply insecure. Honestly, he'd been insufferable.
This new Sael, though…
Her breath hitched slightly as the image solidified, crisp and clear, in her mind's eye. Lounging on his couch, he'd been pure casual power. The lanky frame was gone, replaced by a solid, broad-shouldered physique that strained against the fabric of his simple t-shirt. His posture wasn't a slouch of defeat; it was a relaxed, kingly repose. And his face… God, his face. That sharp jawline, the confident set of his mouth, and those eyes—they held a depth, a calm intelligence that seemed to look right through her streamer persona, straight past the bravado, reaching the struggling musician hiding underneath.
"He's like… like they took the concept of 'alpha male' from some pre-war romance novel," she mused, dipping her fingers back into the moisturizer jar, "and then sanded down all the toxic edges. Confident without being arrogant. Powerful, but it feels… protective, not aggressive." She remembered the low, resonant timbre of his voice when he'd offered her the contract. Not a question, but a statement of fact. An invitation to a destiny he was already certain of.
A faint warmth spread through her chest. The embodiment of a perfect man? Probably for any woman with a pulse. And he was living in his mom's apartment, waiting for her.
The thought of the contract snapped her out of her reverie, her eyes flicking to her phone, screen-up on the vanity. The Meteor Studio logo—a simple, elegant M that looked like a stylized comet—was still displayed from her last search.
Her smile faded, replaced by a look of sheer, staggering awe. His personal pull was one thing, but this? This was something else entirely.
Meteor Studio.
The name itself felt heavy, mythic. It wasn't just a company; it was a cultural earthquake. She picked up the phone, her thumb stroking the cool glass over the logo as if she could absorb its power through touch.
"A struggling artist's dream," she mused, her internal monologue a hushed whisper of disbelief. "No. That's not strong enough. This is a struggling artist's fantasy. You pray a local indie label might notice you, maybe hope for a few thousand streams. You don't… you don't get a direct offer from the studio that basically dropped a nuclear warhead on the entire entertainment industry."
She let out a breathy, incredulous laugh that echoed in the quiet room. The offer wasn't for some one-off collaboration or a quick featuring spot. He'd looked her dead in the eye and offered her a contract. To be their artist. To be the voice, the sound, attached to that iconic, game-changing name.
The weight of it was terrifying. And exhilarating.
Driven by a sudden, undeniable need to reaffirm her sanity, she put her phone down and swiveled in her chair, facing her primary monitor. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced ease. A few clicks later, the MeTube page for Silent Hill: First Fear loaded. Not a gameplay video. No, she clicked on the official trailer.
She'd seen it a dozen times before, but now she watched it with new eyes. Not as a gamer, but as a creator. The trailer began, and she immediately cranked the volume, letting the haunting, minimalist soundscape aggressively fill her room. No bombastic orchestra here; just the dissonant, aching groan of strings, the whisper of static, the distant, lonely echo of a single piano key. Less a soundtrack, more an auditory nightmare, perfectly crafted to seep right into your bones.
"Any other game studio offering a music contract?" she thought, a cynical part of her mind interjecting. "I'd probably laugh in their faces. They'd want some generic, epic battle theme or a poppy, forgettable credits song. But this...?"
Her eyes remained locked on the screen as the trailer reached its chilling climax.
"This studio is different. They just get it, you know? They understand mood. They understand tone. They understand that silence can be louder than a scream. They didn't just make a game; they made a piece of art that's practically being called a literary masterpiece. The music isn't an afterthought; it's the absolute soul of the experience."
She closed the video, the final, ominous note hanging in the air. The decision, which had felt thrilling and terrifying just moments before, now felt absolute. Inevitable.
"Saying no wouldn't be professional suicide," she concluded, a fierce determination settling deep in her gut. "It would be professional insanity. This isn't just a golden ticket. This is a ticket to a whole new game…"
The determination solidifying in Millie's gut wasn't just a thought—it was a deep, warm current, steadying her nerves like a shot of high-proof liquor. She swiveled her office chair back towards her desk, a silent admission that the evening's moisturizer routine was thoroughly forgotten. Her laptop screen pulsed with a cool, familiar blue-white light, the portal to the internet's relentless hive mind: Chirper.
Her fingers flew over the keys, not seeking rhythm or melody, but diving headfirst into the churning digital ocean of speculation—the endless roar surrounding her new benefactors. This wasn't just about Sael; this was about the source of his current seismic shift.
She typed "Meteor Studio" into the search bar.
The results hit back immediately—not a trickle, but a digital deluge. It was a torrent of frenzied hype, wildly imaginative theories, and outright worship, all packaged in 280-character bursts. A wry, slightly cynical smile touched her lips as she began to scroll, mumbling the most outlandish posts aloud to the empty, neon-lit bedroom space.
"'Anonymous sources confirm it's a collective of reclusive coding geniuses living in a Swiss bunker," she read, her voice dripping with amused skepticism. She tilted her head, tapping a well-manicured nail against the screen. "Sure. Because the world's quietest, yet most innovative, entertainment studio would definitely choose to operate out of a neutral country famous primarily for cheese and banks. Makes perfect sense."
She scrolled down, the feed—a dizzying mix of fan art, conspiracy theories, and investment advice—blurring past her eyes. The noise was deafening. Every reply chain was a labyrinth of conjecture, each user trying to sound more 'in-the-know' than the last.
Another post caught her attention, pulling her up short. "'My uncle works at Vapor and says they hired top-tier Hollywood devs who got sick of the corporate system and went rogue. They're basically the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen for gaming.'"
She nodded slowly, considering the source, even though it was entirely unverified. "Warmer," she muttered, leaning in. "Definitely warmer. The polish on that Silent Hill reboot is just insane. It screams triple-A budget, but without the usual corporate soul-suck. It feels… unburdened. But still… 'going rogue' doesn't quite explain the sudden, clean operation. And it doesn't explain Sael."
The theories were entertaining, digital candy designed to generate clicks and drama, but they were ultimately noise. To find the signal, she needed to go to the source.
She navigated away from the chaos of Chirper, opening a new tab and navigating directly to Sael VT's MeTube channel. The page loaded instantly, stark and simple. No banners, no flashing ads, just the profile picture—the familiar, anonymous anime avatar—and a single video.
"River Flows in You."
The view count was now a number so large it seemed abstract, disconnected from reality. She clicked play, allowing the beautiful, sorrowful piano piece to wash over her, settling the frantic energy the digital dive had created.
This was the key. This was the specific, tiny crack in the otherwise impenetrable myth.
"And then you showed up," she whispered to the screen, to the anonymous image of Sael's former virtual self. "No grand announcement. No PR splash. No marketing campaign, just… a perfect, polished piece of music, dropped into the world like a perfectly smooth stone in a pond."
She leaned closer, as if she could peel back the pixels and divine the true secrets hidden beneath. "That one upload proved half of it. It proved that whatever Meteor Studio is, it's not some giant, faceless, bureaucratic corporation. It's too lean. Too precise. It's something… more personal. More dangerous. It's just pure, uncut talent, leveraged to its absolute maximum."
The mystery had always been the biggest part of the appeal, drawing the entire world to their orbit. But now, Millie wasn't just observing the orbit; she was being pulled bodily into the gravitational field. The thought was dizzying, vertigo-inducing. She was on the inside.
The sharp creak of the apartment's front door opening and closing downstairs brutally dragged Millie out of her digital trance. Muffled footsteps ascended the wooden stairs, followed by the heavy, resounding thud of a large travel bag being dropped unceremoniously in the central hallway.
A moment later, her bedroom door was pushed open without so much as a perfunctory knock.
Amora stood framed in the doorway, looking absolutely, beautifully wrecked. Her meticulous streaming makeup was miraculously still flawless—a dramatic wing of razor-sharp black eyeliner and glittering blue highlighter—but her posture spoke of total exhaustion. Her shoulders were slumped with the crushing weight of the post-stream adrenaline crash, and she smelled faintly of stale energy drinks, hairspray, and victory.
"Ugh. I am clinically deceased," Amora groaned, her voice a tired husk. "My chat absolutely would not stop asking about the new Soldier of Red update. I spent two hours trying to manufacture excitement." She kicked the door shut behind her with a sigh and then collapsed onto the end of Millie's bed like a discarded marionette whose strings had just been cut. "It's literally the same three maps with a new paint job and slightly different helmet skins. So. Fucking. Boring."
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand, the exhaustion immediately replaced by a spark of keen, predatory curiosity as her sharp eyes focused on Millie.
"So. For real, though?" Amora asked, lifting an eyebrow. "You're actually doing it? A whole collaboration stream? With him? Mr. Personality-Transplant?"
Millie didn't immediately look up from her laptop. She was too busy fine-tuning a subtle, atmospheric synth layer for one of her own demo tracks, trying to maintain an air of professional detachment. "He's different, Amora. Seriously. It's not an act. Whatever happened, the old Sael… he's completely gone."
"Okay, okay, I believe you," Amora conceded, waving an expressive hand dismissively. She wasn't worried about Sael's personality; she was worried about his clout. "But the Meteor Studio thing… that's for real, right? He's actually got an in? Like, a real one?"
A slow, profoundly secretive smirk finally spread across Millie's face. She leaned back, finally allowing herself to meet her roommate's gaze, her eyes glinting with triumph. "You could say that."
Amora whistled, low and genuinely impressed, the sound barely audible. "Damn. Okay." She sat up, energized by the gravity of the revelation. "If he's got that kind of serious clout… and he looks like that now…" She fanned herself dramatically, affecting a swoon. "Maybe I should shoot my shot. Is he single? Please tell me he's single and emotionally available, because I am willing to risk it all for Meteor Studio access."
Millie burst out laughing, the sound bright and entirely genuine in the small, cluttered room. "Good luck with that, Honey. Pretty sure Emily has permanent, blood-sworn dibs on him. And… from what I gather, he's more than okay with that awkward arrangement."
Amora's eyes went comically wide, like saucers. "Wait, what? For real? With his own sister? That's… whoa. That's seriously next-level progressive. And also, dare I say… kinda hot?"
"It's complicated," Millie said smoothly, her smile softening as she thought of the strange, intense dynamic she'd witnessed between Sael and Emily. "And anyway, don't get any ideas about poaching. Em already gave me the green light to try, so you need to back off." She delivered the warning lightly, a playful but firm statement in the competitive arena of their shared friendship.
Amora grinned, a predatory flash of white teeth under the dramatic makeup. "You sly bitch! Calling dibs through the sister? That's not a move; that's a power play. Fine, fine. I'll cede the battlefield for now." She flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her energy finally draining away again. "But if you get famous and leave us for some mega-studio mansion, you have to let me come visit. I'll be your live-in hype man and personal security consultant."
The playful banter settled into a comfortable, easy silence. The sounds of the Octopussy House slowly waking up filtered into the room: Luxi's door down the hall opened and closed, and they heard the faint, high-pitched hum of the kitchen microwave coming to life.
Millie's focus returned to her laptop screen, the complex, colorful waveform of her half-finished music track suddenly seeming small and insignificant compared to the monstrous opportunity ahead. The playful glint in her eyes faded entirely, replaced by a steely, professional determination.
"It's not about that, you know," she said, her voice dropping lower, growing intensely serious. "The guy is… yeah, he's a massive upgrade. But this," she gestured vaguely at the digital world on the screen, "this is my actual shot, Amora. This is the real deal. I am not gonna mess this up because I'm distracted chasing some guy, even if he is… that." She emphasized the last word with a significant look that acknowledged Sael's current hotness while dismissing its relevance.
Amora sat up immediately, her own expression shifting to match Millie's seriousness. She nodded, the teasing completely gone from her face, recognizing the shift in tone.
"I know. I'm just messing with you," Amora confirmed, her voice now deeply earnest. "This is huge, Mills. Meteor Studio… it's a bigger deal than you're even acting like it is. It's what everyone is talking about." She met Millie's determined gaze, her tone cementing their pact. "Don't screw it up."
Millie held her friend's look, the immense weight and gravity of the moment passing silently between them. She gave a single, firm, professional nod—a promise made to herself, and now witnessed.
"I won't."