Dempsey, Teranua – March 29, 4 PM
Gregoria pressed her shaking hand to the last scar of breath in her lungs. The bill—"for food"—had bought her two bowls of steaming noodle soup from a ramshackle stall near the river. For a moment, she'd closed her eyes and tasted warmth. But the hunger was relentless. It gnawed at her gut, sharper than any memory.
Now, shivering in clothes two sizes too large, she stood before JC Studios. It was a fortress of glass and steel, rising above the squalor of the Lower District like a shining monolith. A stark contrast to the soot-darkened alleys and faded brick tenements that clustered around it.
The polished façade reflected the afternoon sun in fractured shards, almost blinding.
"This wasn't here two weeks ago."
Had to have been psinetically constructed.
How many had died for this kind of opulence? she thought bitterly.
She hesitated at the revolving doors. Below, the street vendors hawked spiced meat and secondhand scrap. A group of children darted between legs, eyes wild with fear as peace wardens patrolled, prodding beggars with wooden truncheons.
The tyranny of suppressed speech and rations was replaced by free speech and a functioning market.
Those who had no food and no money, many of whom couldn't work a job, would've traded their speech for a drop of clean water, but nobody begged on the sidewalk by the studio. The fear of being labeled a "rebel sympathizer" was greater than the fear of starvation.
A microphone hung from the ceiling near the entrance, its lens trained on each person who walked in: color-coded data streamed through its wires directly to some invisible archive.
She knew how to read the heat of surveillance cameras in Dempsey—she used to dodge them when hanging out with her friends. Now, she felt their judgment turning her blood into ash.
One step forward, Gregoria. You can barely taste yesterday's food.
She inhaled, stepped inside, and the world changed.
The lobby was cavernous. Polished marble floors stretched under a vaulted glass ceiling. Even the elevator panels gleamed, the brushed steel unblemished by scuff or fingerprint.
A huge hologram in the center spun a looped advertisement: "JC PRODUCTION: Dream. Design. Dominate. Internships in Modeling & Acting. Two Weeks Unpaid. Paid Thereafter." The bright letters flickered between gold and crimson.
She nearly stumbled. Her heart fluttered against her ribs, not from awe, but from a sudden, terrible awareness of being a fraud. Imposter syndrome roared in her ears.
I'm a princess clinging to ashes. I don't belong here.
She forced herself to walk forward. Each step echoed like a lie in the sterile space. The receptionist's desk—white quartz—sat under a single pendant light that glowed amber.
The receptionist herself was a vision of perfection: hair in a sleek bun, skin so flawless it appeared sculpted, and an expression so unclouded by emotion that Gregoria wondered if she was even alive.
"Welcome to JC Studios," the woman said, her voice soft but resonant. "How may I assist you?"
Gregoria's tongue felt heavy. She managed, "Uh… I—I heard you're looking for interns."
The receptionist's lips curved in a practiced smile. "Yes. Please fill out this form." She slid a thin digital tablet across the desk, its surface humming.
Gregoria glanced at the questions: name, age, address, skill set, and—most disquieting—"Personal Motivations." She tapped her name in a shaky script: Gregoria Wilson.
The moment the tablet registered her surname, the receptionist paused, eyebrows lifting just enough to set her apart from actual human beings.
"Please proceed to Waiting Room 6," she said, nodding to a door behind her. "A liaison officer will call you when it's time."
Gregoria barely heard the door click shut. She sank into the nearest chair in the lobby, the leather cool and smooth against her knees.
Two uniformed men strode past—Studio Liaison Officers—their badges glinting and faces blandly attentive. One paused to glance at Gregoria's hands, at the torn edges of her cloak, then swiftly looked away.
I'm already marked as someone unwanted. Fantastic.
She rose, stifling a shiver that had nothing to do with cold, and found her way to the numbered waiting rooms.
Room 6 was behind a glass wall tinted smoky grey: a dozen chairs, each occupied by a young woman or man wearing pristine clothes, displaying calm patience that felt alien to Gregoria. They stared ahead with blank expressions, finger-tapping on their own digital tablets, or simply adjusting the collars of their tailored jackets. Some whispered to each other in quiet tones that made Gregoria sink lower in her seat.
Their clothes were impeccable. Their faces, too well-fed to be starving. Their eyes… so steady. She touched her own cheeks, dark with soot and stress. Her hair felt matted, her clothes vultured by torn seams. How did any of these people get here? she wondered.
She sank into a vacant chair and tried not to tremble when she realized everyone was looking at her—some overtly, some in sidelong glances. A girl with an emerald scarf leaned toward her neighbor and whispered, "Who let that in?"
The neighbor shrugged. "Haven't you heard? JC is desperate. They want anything that looks real."
That?Real?
She'd never wanted to be "real" so badly.
I can't stay here.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced herself to breathe. The foyer was silent except for the distant hum of the surveillance drones overhead. Every second stretched like a taut wire. Then, the door at the side of the waiting room opened.
A tall man in gray linen stepped inside—he wore a badge bearing a stylized JC crest stamped with a dire-wolf emblem. He checked the list on his tablet, found Gregoria's name, and offered a curt nod.
"Ms. Wilson. Follow me."
The other hopefuls watched her walk out. She heard whispers rising behind her — "Who is she?" "Poor thing looks like she's about to collapse."
She forced her shoulders back, head high. But when the liaison officer guided her through a second set of glass doors into a narrow corridor, she felt as though she were encased in ice.
They passed by walls of frosted glass that glowed faintly, revealing the shapes of office cubicles beyond, all filled with silent silhouettes bent over holographic screens. Even the floor beneath her feet seemed to pulse, as if alive.
After a short walk, they stopped before a single door: SCREENING ROOM B: VALUE SUITE. The liaison officer knocked, then opened it and ushered her inside.
The room was pitch-black, save for a single spotlight suspended above a steel chair in the center. The light cratered on the polished floor, leaving the rest of the room in smothering darkness.
Gregoria's heart thundered. The chair looked like an interrogation seat in a palace dungeons — a terrifying throne just for her.
She inhaled, swallowed hard, and stepped forward, guided by the officer's low voice: "Please sit."
She sank into the chair, feeling its cold steel biting her skin through her thin dress. Behind her, the liaison officer closed the door with a muted click.
For long moments, nothing happened. Breathing echoed. Her pulse hammered in her throat.
And then — the room brightened, as if a distant eye had opened. Surrounding walls of glass revealed a translucent-walled interview chamber, like a one-way viewing window.
Figures moved in that space but remained obscured by smoky glass. They could see her. She could see only shadows.
The faint hum of molding lights snapped on around her, riming the chamber with a soft white glow. The steel of the chair creaked as she shifted. She heard the faint hiss of air vents and felt the chill settle deeper into her bones.
A voice sounded from behind the smoky glass — low, steady, malevolent. It echoed slightly, as if recorded in a vault:
"Gregoria Wilson."
She swallowed, lips dry. "Yes."
"Why are you here?"
Pain sliced through her chest. She pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to steady herself. The single spotlight felt like the sun at high noon, burning away every last scrap of privacy.
"I… heard you were hiring interns," she managed to say. Her voice sounded cracked to her own ears. "I need work. I… I'm hungry."
A pause, then the muted sound of someone leaning back in a chair. His silhouette flickered behind the glass. She cursed herself for not being able to see his face.
"Your hunger is… palpable." The voice was soft, almost casual. "What else?"
Gregoria blinked. The way he'd said palpable sent ice through her veins. "I have nowhere else to go." She met her own reflection in the glass — haunted cheeks, eyes rimmed with dark circles. "My home..."
Another pause. The glass shifted to greater opacity as he stood. She sensed motion, as if he circled around the desk. The desk itself was translucent — etched with a filigree pattern of wolves circling a stylized moon. Dare-wolf… on second thought, dire. She noted it in passing, but it made her shiver.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a faint blue outline form on the glass. A name scrolled, glowing: Executive Producer Friedrich–
The full name was hidden.
He sat forward. In the single brilliant beam of light that filtered through the glass, he looked impossibly perfect. A face carved for propaganda: pale skin, jet-black hair, eyes so dark they seemed bottomless. His jaw was angular, lips thin. He wore a nine-piece tailor suit — a charcoal gray silk blend, pressed to harsh precision. Every crease and seam spoke of wealth and influence.
"Wait..."
She swallowed. "F-Friedrich Jackolan?"
He inclined his head in a short nod, steepling his fingers. "I run JC Studios."
Despite herself, her breath caught. She'd heard the rumors: Jackolans don't invest—they invade. Conquer through influence.
Him and his father Wolfgang had sent their people around the world to find raw talent, but next, the rumors said, he'd have them sign contracts no mortal could break. Mothers whispered of hidden clauses — blood tests, lifetime service, fines that crushed families.
But the rumors–the ones that made it to Teranua–never mentioned the Jackolans being strigois.
She took a deep breath but her pulse pounded louder. Swimming in her mind: Hunger was why she came. Not contracts.
He leaned forward and fixed her with a cold stare. "Tell me, Miss Wilson — what do you think of Dempsey?"
She clenched her fists. Cold metal bit into her palms. "It's… dirty," she said, voice almost a whisper. "Hungry. Beautiful for a lie."
He studied her. "And what of the truths?"
She wished she could spit back, The truth is that you'll exploit me. But the words wavered on her tongue.
Instead, she said, "I'm not here to be part of your machine."
He smiled — a slow, chilling upward curl that didn't reach his eyes. "Do you think you have a choice?"
Gregoria bristled. "I chose to leave Mount Falle. I chose to survive."
He let that hang as he rose. The light flared as he stepped into it, swallowing his silhouette. He moved around the desk, the glass revealing more of him — a gesture so smooth it looked practiced.
His voice echoed again. "An internship is a contract. A promise. You will be here two weeks, unpaid. That promise grants you certain opportunities. After two weeks, if you show promise… you will be paid."
She fought the urge to place her hands on her hips. "I need food," she said bluntly. "If you'll offer me paid work before those two weeks, that might keep me alive."
He inclined his head. She felt as though her words slid across ice. "Your hunger is not in doubt." He touched the desk, and the glass surface lit up from within.
A hologram of a business card floated there: translucent black with silver filigree. A dire-wolf circled the letters JC on the front. On the back were two lines of text:
[Basement Suite B-3
Report at 9 AM tomorrow]
He slid the card across the desk. It hummed with a subtle blue glow, then receded into nothing, as though she'd registered it in full.
"I don't want your pity," she said, voice trembling. "I want—"
"—I know what you want." He was already turning away, retreating behind the translucent wall. "I give you tomorrow morning. Come alone. No one will stop you. Don't be late."
The glass walls dimmed to opaque as he walked out. The single spotlight flickered out, leaving her in darkness once more. She blinked as the room returned to silence, save for her ragged breathing.
Seconds passed. The door behind her clicked open. A Studio Liaison Officer stood in the threshold.
"Miss Wilson?"
She rose, every muscle taut. "I understand."
She followed him out of the room, trying not to tremble. Every step felt like walking on shattered glass.
The lobby was bright again, artificial sun from above. Gregoria blinked in the sudden glare as the receptionist smiled at her — no questions asked, only a click to mark "present." Passing hopefuls glanced her way. Some had envy in their eyes: "He really took the orphan?" Others had pity. Most had no clue.
She gripped her cloak tighter, stuffed arms into cold pockets, and left.
As she stepped outside, the chill of the Lower District air slapped her face. She glanced at the studio's polished glass one last time.
She saw a reflection that stole her breath: Friedrich, standing a few feet away on the other side of the sidewalk, staring at her. Pale face, dark hair, eyes that glinted a faint crimson in the evening light.
She froze. Her heart hammered as the world seemed to narrow to his silhouette. She met his gaze. He nodded once, as though confirming a secret argument between them.
Then he turned on his heel and walked away — disappearing into a crowd of suited aides and studio interns, leaving Gregoria alone in the bustling street.
She shook her head.
Just my imagination.
Her stomach twisted with dread. Her throat went dry. She tightened her grip on the paper fortune in her pocket.
Tomorrow, she would learn what kind of bargain she'd made.
And if it cost her soul, at least she wouldn't starve.
All she needed was the truth and revenge.