The rain had softened to mist.
Vincenzo stayed thirty paces back, phone raised, screen brightness dialed all the way down. He didn’t zoom. He wanted the natural shake of his hand — the slight unsteadiness that made it feel real.
On the porch steps, Amelia stood barefoot, shoes dangling from her fingers. Chase said something too low to catch. She laughed once, quiet, then lingered on the top step longer than she needed to. The porch light carved soft shadows under her collarbones.
Vincenzo’s thumb hovered over record.
Click.
He caught the exact moment Chase smiled up at her — unguarded, hopeful. The kind of smile people paid to believe in.
Amelia disappeared inside. The light above her door died.
Chase turned and started down the wet sidewalk, hands in his pockets, shoulders looser than they’d been all night.
Vincenzo lowered the phone but kept walking, lighter already in his other hand. He flicked it open, let the flame rise, then snapped it shut again.
SilverTongue had finally found something worth wanting.
Good.
He took a slow drag from the cigarette he hadn’t lit yet and smiled into the dark.
Authentic faces. Real vulnerability. The kind of story that hooked audiences before they even realized they were being played.
Chase thought he was walking home.
He was walking straight into content.
Vincenzo exhaled smoke that the mist swallowed immediately.
“Welcome to easy mode,” he whispered.
Then he turned toward the afterparty lights waiting two blocks over. Talent still needed finding tonight.