Celeste's chest tightened as she stepped into the room. The heavy, candlelit air pressed down on her, thick and cloying, like it had weight of its own. The figures surrounding the pedestal stood unnervingly still, their robes swallowing their shapes in shadow.
Her gaze locked onto the man at the center—the same man who'd left her that invitation, now cloaked in a presence far more commanding than she remembered.
"What is this?" she managed, her voice small in the cavernous space.
"This," he said, gesturing to the pedestal, "is the moment you've been waiting for. Everything you've worked for, every sacrifice your family has made—this is where it pays off."
The woman with auburn hair from the study entered the circle, her golden dress shimmering like molten fire. "You're standing where legends are born, Celeste," she purred. "Every name you've idolized, every star you've envied—they've stood where you are now."
Celeste's stomach churned. "What are you talking about? What is this… place?"
"It's not the place that matters," the man said. "It's the choice. The contract."
He gestured toward the pedestal again. The red ink on the parchment glistened like fresh blood under the candlelight.
She hesitated, taking a small step forward, but her instincts screamed at her to stop. "What's the price?" she asked, her voice sharper now.
The man's lips curled into a faint smile. "You already know the price, Miss Noir. The question is: Are you willing to pay it?"
"I'm not signing anything until you tell me what this is," she snapped, her fear twisting into defiance.
The woman laughed softly, a sound like wind through brittle leaves. "Such spirit. That's why we chose you."
Celeste backed away, but her heel struck the edge of the circle. One of the robed figures moved, blocking her retreat. She spun around, suddenly aware that every exit was cut off.
"You said this was my choice," she said, panic creeping into her voice.
"And it is," the man said smoothly. "But you've come too far to turn back now. Think about your family. Your mother, still scrubbing floors for the powerful. Your sister, with a voice just as golden as yours, waiting for her chance. Do you want her to struggle as you have?"
Celeste's heart pounded. "Leave my family out of this."
"They've always been a part of this," the woman said, circling her now like a predator stalking its prey. "They're the reason you're here. You carry the weight of their dreams, their sacrifices. But you can lift them higher than they've ever dreamed—if you're willing to give yourself fully to the process."
Her vision blurred with unshed tears, memories flashing in her mind: her mother's hunched back, her father's empty chair at the dinner table, Rollie's bright, hopeful eyes.
"I don't even know what you're asking for," Celeste said, her voice trembling.
The man stepped closer, his tone softer now, almost kind. "We're asking for trust. For devotion. Your voice, your body, your soul—they're instruments, Celeste. And in our hands, they'll become divine."
He reached out, offering his hand. "But you have to surrender. Completely."
The figures in the circle began to hum, their low, vibrating voices weaving into a haunting melody. It reverberated in her bones, pulling at something primal inside her.
She shook her head, fighting the pull. "No. This is insane. I'm not doing this."
The humming grew louder, the air thickening with a suffocating energy. The candles flickered violently, casting strange, shifting shadows on the walls.
"Look closer, Celeste," the man said, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Against her better judgment, her eyes drifted to the contract. The letters seemed to move, writhing on the page like living things. She squinted, trying to make sense of the words.
Then she saw it.
Her name. Not just her stage name, but her full birth name, written in perfect, elegant script. Below it was a single line, blank and waiting for her signature.
"How do you even have this?" she whispered, stepping back.
"We've always had it," the auburn-haired woman said. "Your life has been building to this moment. Every open door, every opportunity—it's led you here."
The humming reached a fever pitch, and Celeste clapped her hands over her ears, desperate to drown it out. But the sound wasn't just in the air—it was inside her, vibrating in her chest, her head, her very core.
"Enough," she screamed.
Silence fell instantly, the abrupt stillness almost more jarring than the noise.
She was breathing hard now, her vision swimming. The man stood before her, calm and unshaken.
"You're scared," he said. "That's natural. But think of what's waiting for you on the other side. Think of the stadiums filled with adoring fans, the world hanging on your every word. You'll never struggle again. You'll never be forgotten."
Celeste stared at him, the weight of his words crushing her.
"Don't rush her," a voice said suddenly, cutting through the tension.
She turned toward the source: a young man, maybe in his early twenties, leaning against the far wall. He wasn't robed like the others, nor was he masked. His tousled black hair fell over sharp, piercing eyes, and there was a cocky tilt to his smile.
"She deserves a minute," he said, his tone light but laced with something dangerous. "After all, it's her soul on the line."
The man in the center turned to him, his expression hardening. "You're not supposed to be here."
"Yeah, well," the newcomer said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was bored."
Celeste stared at him, confused and wary. "Who are you?"
He flashed her a grin, his teeth almost too white. "Call me Riot. I'm the… alternative."
"Enough," the auburn-haired woman snapped. "She's made her choice by coming here."
Celeste's head spun. "I haven't made anything."
"You're out of time, Celeste," the man said, his voice cold now. "Sign the contract."
The humming began again, louder this time, more insistent. The candles flared, their flames twisting like grasping hands.
Riot stepped forward, his smile gone. "Don't listen to them," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "They're lying to you."
The man turned on him, his calm facade cracking. "Enough!" he roared, and the entire room seemed to shudder.
Celeste clutched her head, the world tilting violently around her. She felt something cold press against her hand—a pen.
"Sign it," the man's voice commanded, echoing in her mind like thunder.
But Riot's voice broke through, steady and firm. "Walk away, Celeste. While you still can."
The room seemed to hold its breath, the two opposing forces pulling her in opposite directions.
And then the candles went out.