The VIM building was a cathedral.
The lobby was a cavern.
Amelia smoothed the front of her cardigan, suddenly aware that it was a Target special with pilled elbows.
“You okay?” Chase asked, his hand finding the small of her back.
“I feel like I’m about to step into an exam I didn’t even study for,” she whispered.
“This isn’t Orangeside College,” Chase said, his voice low and steady. “They invited us, Ames. Remember that. We’re the talent.”
He gave her waist a reassuring squeeze, and they stepped toward the reception desk. A woman welcomed them with a warm professional smile. “Welcome to Viento Influencer Media. You must be the prospective talent.”
“SilverTongue and ABeeWin,” Chase said dryly.
The receptionist checked her tablet, before nodding. “Vincenzo and Mr. Elwin are expecting you. Sixth floor.”
Grey Elwin sat at a sleek side table in the observation suite, a tablet resting in his palm as he watched the lobby feed. When they walked into the frame, his heart rate didn’t spike—his physiology didn’t allow for such crude, unoptimized reactions—but his memory index spun rapidly, clicking through files he hadn’t accessed in years.
File Name: Orangeside Community College.
Alias: Elvis Santiago.
Role: The Observer. Meta Guy. The One Who Saw the Strings.
He watched Chase Wright enter, leading with that familiar, lazy shoulder-roll. Behind him came Amelia Winters, clutching her purse with the neurotic precision of a straight-A student facing a surprise exam.
The Salt and the Honey. So, the showrunners finally greenlit the spin-off.
For a second, the mask of “Grey Elwin” felt tight. He remembered the library study sessions. He remembered watching them orbit each other, the unresolved tension that had driven the plot of their college years.
They hadn’t changed. They’d just expanded their user base.
He felt a twinge of something like nostalgia, a warm, fuzzy sensation that he immediately cooled with logic. They had never called “Elvis” after graduation. They had moved on to the next season without him, leaving the guest star behind. Elvis Santiago was a ghost; Grey Elwin was the producer of their new reality.
He adjusted his expression to Professional Enigma.
Vincenzo’s office had the aesthetic of someone who had won an art auction by accident: wall-length screens showing live global analytics, a golden microphone mounted like a trophy, and a whiteboard scribbled with phrases like AUTHENTICITY MONETIZED and TRUTH = TRENDING. Vincenzo stood as they entered, arms spread wide.
“Ah, the dynamic duo! The Salt and the Honey.”
Grey stood by the window, locking eyes with Chase and searching for a spark of recognition.
“Don’t mind the cameras,” Grey said, his voice flat and rapid, gesturing vaguely to the ceiling domes. “They’re not on. It’s all… pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Chase squinted, tilting his head. For a micro-second, a sense of déjà vu triggered in his brain—something in the cadence of the voice, a ghost of a rhythm from a study room—but he shook it off. The suit was too sharp. The eyes were too cold.
Vincenzo steered them toward the leather chairs. “Welcome to VIM, the intersection of influence and intellect.”
“Influencing public intellect?” Chase asked, sitting down and crossing his legs. “Or just managing the lack of it?”
Grey nodded appreciatively, tapping his tablet. Classic Chase. Always leading with the meta-commentary. “That’s actually our Q4 slogan,” he said plainly.
The meeting began. Vincenzo explained the “content strategy” enthusiastically: separate channels, shared hashtags, and “creative freedom with network synergy oversight.”
Chase read the contract line by line. Amelia skimmed her copy, the salary figure at the bottom glowing. It was the feeling of winning the lottery and selling a kidney at the exact same time.
“‘Participant grants VIM perpetual cross-platform license for digital likeness in derivative works,’” Chase read aloud, tapping the page. “That’s a bit broad for a streaming show, isn’t it?”
Vincenzo waved it off. “Legal padding, Chase. It just means if someone makes a viral meme of you, we can repost it without a DMCA headache.”
“It sounds like you’re buying my face,” Chase said.
“I’m leasing your charisma,” Vincenzo corrected. “The face is just the packaging.”
Amelia shifted in her chair. She looked at the contract, then at Chase. The bank’s “no” still rang in her ears. The “restructuring” at the clinic was a silent threat.
“And,” Vincenzo said, leaning forward. “I hear congratulations are in order. A little birdie told me you two are finally doing the fusion dance.”
Chase froze. “We haven’t told anyone…”
“We’re moving in together,” Amelia clarified quickly. “To Chase’s place. It’s just… Well, it makes sense.”
Grey watched them. Consolidating assets. The writers finally answered the ‘will they/won’t they’. It took them long enough.
“Smart,” Vincenzo said. “Chase’s place makes sense. It’s secure.” He tapped on his desk. “Moving is stressful, though. Especially with a launch window approaching. So, as a signing bonus VIM would like to handle the logistics.”
Amelia blinked. “The logistics?”
“Movers,” Grey clarified, his eyes fixed on his tablet. Memories of helping Amelia move out of the dorms once, carrying boxes while she panicked about Tyrone being duct-taped to a doorframe. He wouldn’t be carrying any boxes this time. “El Viento Relocation Services. They pack. They move. They unpack. They even organize your closet.”
He saw Amelia flinch. Too intimate, he noted. She hates strangers touching her history.
“That’s really not necessary, Vinny,” Chase started.
“I insist,” Vincenzo said, his smile widening. “You two need to focus on the streams. Let my people handle the boxes. Consider it an investment in your peace of mind.”
Grey tapped the screen, lifted his head, catching Chase and Amelia exchanging a look.
Elvis would have offered to drive the truck, Grey thought. Grey just hires the crew to empty the house. It was cleaner this way. More efficient.
It was cleaner this way.