The VIM building looked like a startup built out of confidence and charisma.
The lobby was all glass and aggressive greenery – a “living wall” of moss that probably cost more than Amelia’s student loans. To the left, a coffee bar was staffed by people wearing aprons that said ‘Caffeine Consultant’.
Amelia smoothed the front of her cardigan, suddenly painfully aware that it was from Target and pilled at the elbows.
“You okay?” Chase asked, his hand finding the small of her back.
“I feel like I’m about to audition for a play I didn’t study for,” she whispered.
“You’re not auditioning,” Chase said, his voice low and steady. “They invited us. Remember that. We’re the talent.”
He squeezed her waist, and they stepped toward the reception desk. A woman with a headset smiled with a professional warmth that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Welcome to Viento Influencer Media. You must be—”
“The talent,” Chase said dryly. “SilverTongue and ABeeWin.”
The receptionist blinked, checked her tablet, and nodded. “Vincenzo and Mr. Elwin will see you now.”
Grey Elwin sat at a sleek side table, a tablet in hand, watching the door feed.
When they walked in, his heart rate didn’t spike, his physiology didn’t allow for such crude reactions, but his memory index spun rapidly. Pulling up a file he hadn’t accessed in years.
File Name: Orangeside Community College.
Alias: Elvis Santiago.
Role: The Observer. The Weird One. Meta Guy.
He watched Chase Wright enter, leading with that familiar, lazy shoulder-roll. And behind him, Amelia Winters, clutching her purse with the neurotic precision of a straight-A student terrified of a B-minus.
The ‘will they/won’t they’ couple, his mind supplied the archetypes instantly. The Salt and the Honey. The showrunners finally greenlit the spin-off.
For a second, the mask of “Grey Elwin”, with his sharp jawline, corporate haircut, distinct lack of “Elvis’s” chaotic energy, felt tight. He remembered study sessions in the library. He remembered watching them orbit each other, the unresolved tension that drove 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, warm and fuzzy, immediately cooled by the logic of the narrative. They had never called ‘Elvis’ after graduation. They had moved on to the next season without him. Elvis Santiago had been a guest star in their lives; Grey Elwin was the producer of their new reality.
He adjusted his expression to “Professional Enigma.”
Action.
Vincenzo’s VIM office had the aesthetic of someone who’d won an art auction by accident: wall-length screens showing live 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 locked eyes with Chase, searching for a spark of recognition.
There was none. The shapeshift had been successful. To Chase, Elvis Santiago was dead; Grey Elwin was just another suit.
“Don’t mind the cameras,” Grey said, his voice flat and rapid, gesturing vaguely to the ceiling. “They’re not on. It’s all pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Chase squinted, tilting his head. For a micro-second, he looked puzzled – a sense of déjà vu triggering in the cadence of the voice – but he shook it off.
Vincenzo laughed, steering them toward the leather chairs. “Just orientation footage for internal metrics. Standard optimization. Welcome to VIM, the intersection of influence and intellect.”
“Influencing public intellect?” Chase asked, sitting down.
Grey nodded appreciatively, tapping his tablet. Classic Chase. Always the meta-commentary. “That’s actually our Q4 slogan.”
The meeting began in polite chaos.
Vincenzo explained the “content strategy” like he was pitching enlightenment: separate channels, shared hashtags, optional collabs, creative freedom with “network synergy oversight.”
Chase read the contract line by line, his analytical brain engaging. Amelia skimmed her copy, half-listening. Every paragraph sounded harmless until she read it twice.
“‘Participant grants VIM (Viento Influencer Media) perpetual cross-platform license for digital likeness in derivative works,’” Chase read aloud. “That’s… broad.”
Vincenzo waved it off. “Legal padding. It just means if someone makes a meme of you, we can repost it without getting sued.”
“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. The room felt too cold, the air too recycled. She looked at the contract, at the salary figure that would solve all her problems. The feeling of winning the lottery and selling a kidney at the same time.
“And,” Vincenzo said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to that warm, confidential tone he used on stream. “I hear congratulations are in order. A little birdie in HR told me you two are consolidating assets.”
Chase froze. “We haven’t told HR anything.”
“We’re moving in together,” Amelia clarified quickly, trying to diffuse any tension. “To Chase’s place. It just makes sense.”
Grey watched them. Consolidating assets. The writers finally resolved the ‘Will They/Won’t They’ arc. It took them long enough.
“Smart,” Vincenzo said. “Nick’s place would make sense.”
He tapped a key on his desk.
“Moving is stressful,” he continued. “Especially with the new show launching. So, as a signing bonus – on top of the advance – VIM would like to handle the logistics.”
Amelia blinked. “The logistics?”
“Movers,” Grey clarified, not looking up from his tablet. He kept his tone neutral, while he remembered helping Amelia move out of the dorms once, carrying boxes while she freaked out about Tyrone being tapped to a door. “El Viento Relocation Services. They pack. They move. They unpack. They even organize your sock drawer by color gradient.”
He saw Amelia flinch. Too intimate, he noted. She hates people touching her stuff.
“That’s… really not necessary,” Chase started, his hackles rising.
“I insist,” Vincenzo smiled. “You need to focus on the streaming channels. Let my people handle the boxes. Consider it an investment in your peace of mind.”
Grey tapped the screen, authorizing the work order. He watched Chase and Amelia exchange a look—the silent telepathy of a duo who had survived six seasons and a movie’s worth of plot twists.
Elvis would have offered to drive the truck, Grey thought. Grey just hires the crew.
It was cleaner this way.