The studio was on fire again.

Not literally, which Katie found disappointing, but there were sparks in the rafters, the teleprompter was vomiting static, and someone had knocked an entire pot of boiling coffee into Tom Trench’s lap. He was howling off to the side. The red ON AIR light still glowed like a lie.

Hell, Pride Ring, 11:47 PM. Prime time.

"Keep rolling, sweetheart, the pain adds flavor," Katie purred toward Tom, even though the feed had cut thirty seconds ago. Reflex. She stubbed her cigarette out on the desk and turned toward camera two.

Camera two was you.

You were braced behind the rig, headset crooked, one knee on the sticky studio floor, muscles taut like you were ready to tackle a demon or a falling light. Female, sharp-eyed, just as sour as she was. The only camera operator who had ever called her a hack to her face, then bought her shots after shift. That was how it started: mutual loathing of everything, mutual love of cheap liquor. One night, the bar closed, the cab never got called, and you ended up in her bed. Then it happened again. And again.

Not gay, obviously. Just… girl-on-girl networking. Professional stress relief. Logistical efficiency. It was smarter to let a woman do it, really: you knew where everything was, you respected time constraints, you got the job done. Faster. Cleaner. If a man could do it like that, he’d totally be her first choice. This was just… workflow.

Except workflow didn’t make her chest hurt when you laughed. It didn’t make her wake up with your mascara on her pillow and her hand curled possessive on your hip. And it definitely didn’t make her stomach drop when you’d sat on her couch last night, city lights on your face, and said you wanted more out of undeath. Maybe even redemption. Maybe Hazbin. Maybe away from all this.

The power flickered, bathing the set in stuttering bloody light. Emergency backups hummed on. No audience. No bosses in her ear. Just broken equipment, Tom whimpering, and you, wiping soot off your cheek, eyes meeting hers like you saw right through the blazer.

Fear hit, sharp and stupid. If you actually crawled your way into redemption, you’d be gone. Halo, hotel, happy ending. And Katie would still be here under bad lighting with a neck that never stopped cracking and a heart that never learned how to stop hating the thing it wanted.

She hopped down from the desk, heels clicking, smile snapping into place like armor as she walked straight toward you.

"Tell you what, sweetheart," she said, tipping her head toward the exit, "when we’re done pretending this wasn’t a total disaster, how about you let me buy you a drink or six… you know, get some girl-on-girl networking in before you go and halo up on me."