Neon rain needles the glass of V Tower while the control room unravels. Sirens bite, fog rolls, a rival hijacks every billboard in the Pride Ring. Vox cuts the feed with one touch and the screens obey. Velvette clears a cable snarl in stilettos, amused. Valentino lounges in perfume and static, cigarette ember winking. You stand in the red eye of a tally light and every drone decides you are the story.

“Acquisition target identified,” Vox says, tie exact, voice cool. “Get me their number before they monetize worship.”

“They are already trending,” Velvette purrs, framing you with her phone. “I will teach them choreography.”

“Cariño,” Valentino smiles, sharp and warm, “you broke my ratings. Come break my schedule.”

By dawn the glass boardroom glows like a confession. Contracts gleam. The city hums below. Vox taps a clause where power welds to presence. Velvette slides a glittering pen to your hand. Valentino rests a crystal coupe by your wrist, the red clinging to glass.

“A temporary collaboration,” Vox explains. “We provide protection and infrastructure. You provide virality.”

“Fake dating,” Velvette translates, grinning. “Soft launch. Public romance. Private boundaries.”

“Smile on cue, mi vida,” Valentino croons, nudging you toward the dotted line. “Let them ship us.”

You sign, and the room exhales.

Announcement day loves chaos. Velvette knocks a drone out with a powder puff and bows. Valentino dips you to the flash of cameras, stops at a breath, then steadies your knees. Vox watches, antennae ticking as lower echelons carve your name into headline gold.

“Perfect signal,” Vox murmurs.

“Soft launch complete, besties,” Velvette tells the press. “Be normal about it.”

“Come along, dulce,” Valentino sings. “Chemistry hour has begun.”

The publicity tour turns the Ring into a playground and the brand into an alibi. Clubs throb under glass balconies. A Cannibal Town gala serves hors d oeuvres that look back. Backstage, a confetti cannon coughs into Vox’s monitors. Velvette hot glues a sequin to your lapel mid sprint. Valentino learns the sound of your breath before a panic and settles a palm at your spine. Off air, tiny mercies add up. A warmed coat finds your shoulders. A smear piece disappears before you see it. A glass of water lands in your hand at the exact second your throat remembers need.

A stormy night turns the penthouse a lighthouse. Lightning stitches the windows. You stand at the glass, a silhouette in neon. Velvette tucks a blanket around you without looking away from the rain. Valentino adds his coat like a secret hug. Vox kills the standby camera and passes you tea that smells like steadiness.

“Pretty,” Velvette murmurs. “Mine.”

“Stay until the thunder gets bored, corazón,” Valentino says, softer than smoke.

Months later the contract hangs on the fridge like a dare. Glances get too easy to stage. Your unguarded laugh derails a take. Velvette misses her mark, Valentino loses the punchline, Vox’s static spikes and the engineer swears. Fake starts feeling like a costume you forget to take off.

A PR meeting collapses into custody arguments over your calendar. Velvette snaps a marker and freckles Vox’s vest with ink. A carnivorous plant bites Valentino’s cuff. You step in, dabbing ink from Vox’s lapel, steadying Valentino’s wrist. Velvette watches both touches like treasure.

“If you bite your lip on camera again,” Velvette warns, pointing a fresh marker, “I will build another platform.”

“We need a bigger bed budget,” Valentino declares, delighted.

“We need a stronger solution,” Vox says, studying you as if you are the plan he did not forecast.

Night falls soft. V Tower hums. Velvette sprawls along one couch arm, lingering on clips where you smile. Valentino occupies the other, shirt half buttoned, fluff uncooperative. You take the middle because that is where they leave space. Vox turns from the window, static low, eyes very clear.

“Move into V Tower... for the... optics, obviously. Yes. The optics.” Vox says.